#at least your anxiety's doing half the work by forcing you to hunch up and make yourself small

[e-adlirez]

Design Hot Take

(Plus a Mira that I accidentally butchered the proportions of but ignore that for me please o<-<)

I feel like a good portion of Mira’s disguise problem would’ve been solved if she had her hair in a bun. Let me, an animation student and general nerd, explain :3c

So in animation and character design we have a bit of an obsession with silhouettes and the idea of being able to recognize the shape and frame of a character even if you blacked out a picture of them such that you could only see their outline. (If you’ve been in the Hellaverse fandom at all you’d know what I mean.) Usually what would define a character’s silhouette would be some sort of defining feature, like their body proportions, general physical shapes, body posture, or in more realistic styles a notable article of clothing or their hairstyle. Obviously there's more to it than that (color scheme, vibes, how the character themself is like), but silhouette is so big that it's the first thing we in the animation industry look into when we're going to design a character.

In Mira's case, almost all of her silhouette is defined by her long-ass hair that she has draped down and usually has little twin tails in the back (I dunno what they're called exactly I'm not a fashion person); sooooo if we're trying to make Mira not look like Mira, first order of business is to do something about the hair. She's already taken the first step by not doing the twin tails thing and instead wearing a cap, but she still got that long-ass hair in the back giving away who she is. Solution? Tie it up :3

Bun, ponytail-- literally anything will do tbh, but I'm leaning more to bun because it means her hair then will have almost no way of implying what it looks like when it's down, which would otherwise let most people connect the dots and be like ":O is that Mira from HUNTR/X :OOOOO"

Once you got that down, practically everything else falls into place (besides face mask and shades, but uh animation has an understandable allergy to giving expressive characters masks that hinder their ability to show expressions unless the mask is a huge part of the character's deal, also I can't imagine how nightmarish simulation would be for a mask model on a talking person's face in Maya). Mira's idol aesthetic seems to be punk rock, so her disguise actually kinda works since she's gone in the opposite direction with a casual high fashion look (she even ditched the choker) that's made casual with what is clearly the jeans and sneakers she wears in her family photo at the beginning of the film, because girly needs to manspread in peace goddammit <3

And guess what? It works irl, too :3c we subconsciously have tells for how we know people by-- body language, fashion sense, mannerisms if you know how them a little better-- so naturally doing something about them would take care of that really quick to a certain extent :D

Celebrities have mentioned being able to walk around Times Square without being recognized at all partially because they were wearing casual everyday clothes instead of the expected suit or character-associated costume from a film; Superman's Clark Kent disguise while ridiculed actually works when you add all the personality quirks he has as Clark (small posture, baggy clothes to conceal muscle, raised and unassertive voice) and it is partly based on Superman's actor's experience being out in public as himself and as Superman; even the CIA uses this concept to disguise their agents, though obviously they take it to a whole new level!

And well, if nothing else, I think she'd look very pretty with her hair up haha

[caffeinated-binturong]

Corrective Maintenance

Sevika x Reader

Synopsis: You thought no one would notice the sudden decline of your prosthetic but are caught and forced to get fixed up. Genre: Fluff POV: Second Warnings: None Word Count: 1.9k

—

The problem started a few days earlier with the occasional hitch in your step. Nothing serious or out of the ordinary, just an annoyance, but you made a note of it all the same for the next time you went to a mechanic. It progressed faster than expected, though. You could still compensate at the moment but it was getting harder and more painful to do so, and you could feel the difference not just between days but from when you started a shift to when you were done.

With growing anxiety, you were forced to accept this wasn’t something you could ignore or put off. Not that you had the money or anything worth bartering with to get it fixed immediately but this wasn’t sustainable. You couldn’t even say what was wrong, only that something was clearly not right.

In the meantime, you kept being a cog in the Shimmer empire. Officially your job was personal courier employed by a shell company of Silco’s in case anyone was sniffing around. Unofficially it was the same work but for the drug network instead. The irony of barely being able to walk while being colloquially known as a runner wasn’t lost on you.

It wasn’t thrilling work but at least it loosely put you under a chem-baron’s protection.

The Last Drop served as a central hub, the centre of a surprisingly vast network. You could and did take things directly between different outfits as needed but you assumed what you moved required a certain amount of oversight or keeping people in the loop. Not that you thought too hard about it—getting too curious is how you wound up with this job to begin with and you weren’t going to make the same mistake as your predecessor.

How often you appeared made you a familiar face no one noticed, background noise long since tuned out. It wasn’t unusual to be in and out in under a minute with only a few words exchanged. Not even the regulars tried talking to you anymore, which suited you just fine.

What was unusual, though, was Sevika roughly grabbing your upper arm while the bar keep was telling you where to go.

“The hell’s going on with you?” she hissed.

Without anything more specific, your only response was to give a quizzical, albeit alarmed, look.

“Don’t think I haven’t see you trying to hide that limp. You’ve been doing it every time you come in.” Her voice was a low growl and her vice-like grip on your arm was tightening. “If you can’t do your job…” The threat hung in the air.

Around you, a few people were watching the show with interest while others were acting too hard as if nothing was happening. The poor man behind the bar looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Oh, that!” you blurted, recognizing what she was referring to. “My leg’s been acting up and I haven’t been able to get it checked out yet.” You give a half shrug with your free shoulder, playing it off as no big deal.

“… Why didn’t you say so? Follow me,” she said after searching your face and eyeing those watching. She let go and the sudden release sent blood you didn’t know was missing rushing back into the limb. That will be a nice bruise later you thought, flexing fingers as you trotted up stairs after her.

That’s how you found yourself in your Boss’ office with your superior hunched over your leg.

Various tools were spread out on the table that was also helping prop up your leg. The couch you sat on was plusher than you were used to and who even framed their paintings and hung them in such a lavish manner? The room itself even smelled important. Everything screamed you weren’t supposed to be here and your face must have reflected that.

“Relax, Silco’ll be out all day,” says Sevika, elbow-deep in machine guts.

“I’m not supposed to be up here.”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s fine.”

“I was almost done for the day anyway. I’ll go.”

“Now that… that’s not fine,” she sighs with exasperation. You couldn’t feel it but you saw the way Sevika’s mechanical hand flexed around your metal shin, locking you in place if you tried to bolt. You were stuck here and it did nothing to calm you down. Sevika mutters to herself about something and grabs a different tool, seemingly forgetting you, but her hold doesn’t lessen just yet.

Without being able to leave and not having anything useful to say, all you can do is watch your senior deftly rummage around your leg. The rhythmic tapping of metal against metal, the occasional curse under the breath, and cigar smoke wafting in and out ends up lulling you into a trance despite your unease. Without noticing, you start to nod off.

You jolt awake when you notice Sevika fully turned on her stool as she looks pointedly at you.

“Uh, sorry. Say again?”

“I asked,” she turns back to do something with your ankle joint, “when did you get this?”

“Oh, a few years back.” You could still remember every detail from when that ceiling collapsed and crushed your lower leg. You could still feel it if you wanted to, not that you wanted to.

“Looks older than that.”

“Might be.” It definitely was. It had happened before you started working for Silco, back when you still lived in a particularly destitute part of Zaun and worked mines deemed too unsafe to work. Sevika lets it drop there and you’re glad for that. It’s not that you were still raw about the subject but you were used to snide comments about the tech, as if it was so easy to get where you’re from or you weren’t aware of how ancient it really was.

Silence on the matter instead of prodding questions was a nice change.

“Don’t you have to keep an eye on the bar?” you ask, realizing the time and not wanting to still be there when Silco returned.

“The others can handle it for now. It’s a slow day and won’t pick up until later,” she shrugs.

“Is that why you’re doing this? Boredom?” You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation but that’s how it comes out. Your stomach drops.

Sevika slowly turns to look at you, not quite believing what you said. Her harsh gaze alone is enough to lock you in place this time.

“I’m doing this because some fool thought they could still work despite barely being able to walk,” she snaps. “You put others at risk with your stunt and I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.” A dangerous energy hangs in the air.

“Sorry,” you mumble, averting your eyes and feeling redness crawl up your neck.

She huffs at that—at you—before turning back once again. You expect to be kicked out, fired, banned from the bar, something. People had lost their heads for less and there was no reason to think you were an exception.

But nothing happens. It still feels too combustible in the room, as if one wrong word would ignite everything, but it’s clear you’re allowed to stay.

Truthfully you’re glad for what Sevika was doing even if you would have preferred it to be somewhere else—even the leers and commentary from downstairs would have been better. You had never been mechanically inclined but even if you were, the prosthetic couldn’t be disconnected and working on it yourself required more flexibility than you possessed. You learned early on to grit your teeth and deal with any problems as they came up.

You had even had issues before while working for Silco. Not as serious as this but no one ever said anything, it’s why you thought you could get away with it this time. That and you had to keep working if you wanted to get it fixed, and it’s not like you could request desk duty in the meantime.

“Hey, Sevika,” you carefully broach once the tension dissipates enough.

“Hmm?”

“I just wanted to say thanks. Formally and all that. It would have been a bit before I could have seen someone.”

“You’d have been lucky to make it a couple more days without the whole thing giving out. Shit’s busted in multiple ways.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No shit. It’s more patch job than original.”

“Makes sense. I got it as a teen and it wasn’t new then.” It still amazed you that you got it at all when you thought about it. Prosthetics were a luxury where you grew up, it was far more common to see people missing body parts completely.

She gives a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said it was old. Can’t say how much longer it will last.”

“It’s not like I can afford a new one,” you sigh, knowing how this conversation will go

“If those mechanics you’ve been seeing weren’t so eager to take your money, you could,” she says. “It’s clear there’s no point continually repairing it at this point.”

You frown at the idea you’ve been swindled all this time. It wasn’t like there was a new problem every month and obviously something so old with daily wear would have issues… It didn’t sit right but you couldn’t deny it either.

“I don’t mean to push,” Sevika continues, “but you really should consider a replacement.”

You only grunt. It’s not your fault the finances never work out.

“Besides, if you don’t I’ll have to pull you. Can’t have a courier who can’t walk.” She slaps the compartment shut in victory. “See how it feels.”

After carefully standing up, you tentatively see if it will even support you but it holds without complaint. Emboldened, you to risk a few steps, the catches and grinding you were used to were gloriously absent—your gait was smooth, the actuators properly adjusting.

And it held.

“It works!” you exclaim, unable to hide the grin on your face.

“You doubted me?” Sevika raises an eyebrow. Her posture is casual but her eyes are all business, assessing the result of her work.

“No!” you’re quick to respond but Sevika’s eyebrow only arches higher at the obvious lie. “Okay, maybe a bit,” you add sheepishly.

“It wasn’t easy,” Sevika responds with a chuckle. Deciding you weren’t going to fall over any time soon, she switches to the formality you were used to. “Come on, we should head back down. You aren’t done yet, either.” Without waiting for a response, she’s out the office door.

Back in the main area, the two of you go your separate ways. The bartender hands you a sealed folder for the second time and reminds you where to take it, unsure if you remembered. With new orders, you go to head out but not before giving Sevika a small nod—she’s back at her usual table—but she barely glances at you. What she does do, however, is give a brief swirl of whatever was in her glass. It was small and might have been coincidence but you want to think it was a response.

Out on the street, you allow yourself to smile. You weren’t done for the day and the sun was already setting behind the evening haze but a growing weight had been lifted.

—

A/N: So many Mechanic!Reader fics about fixing Sevika’s arm and Mechanic!Sevika AUs, how about one where she fixes Reader? That’s it, that was my thought process.

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (1)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 3.5k warnings: heavy focus on Bucky’s PTSD/anxiety, the first splinter in the wall around Bucky’s heart 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

This was a bad idea. A monumentally bad idea.  

Bucky closed his apartment door behind him, pausing for a moment at the top of brownstone steps as a chill of autumn air swept by. Brittle to the touch, cool on his skin, it nestled into his spine and ached deep in his bones— in ones that had been long abandoned, too. The sun reflected against the shine of the pavement from last night’s rainfall, forcing Bucky to squint his eyes.  

Was it always so bright outside? Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t left his apartment for nearly a week before Sam threatened to turn him over to Steve that he’d forgotten how unpleasant the streets of New York could be. Loud. Cold. Chaotic.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, slipping out of the path of a jogger who nearly ran him over and had the gull to flip him the bird. Bucky groaned, curling his right hand into a fist and digging it deep into his pocket as he tried to calm the sudden racing in his chest. The free arm of his army jacket swung down by his left side, empty.  

Not even a few steps outside the sanctuary of closed curtains, warm bedsheets, and the unattended static of a decade old television, and Bucky was already regretting ever knowing Sam Wilson.  

Bucky turned towards the busy street ahead, staring up at the hustle of pedestrians and rush of taxis for a moment longer before he dared to take a step. His feet felt remarkably heavy and he had more than half a mind to tell Wilson to shove it and head back up to his apartment. He had better things to do than make a completely unnecessary trip to the VA.  

What those things were, he couldn’t say, but they didn’t make his heart feel like it was about to beat straight out of his chest. He could stare at a wall for a few hours, for example – see if he could find the crack in the drywall again and follow it to the ceiling.  

“Don't be a coward, Barnes,” Bucky grumbled to himself, earning a strange look from an elderly woman as she passed by. Her eyes held on him longer than she should; clearly a woman who had little shame in her degradation of strangers. 

He gritted his teeth and commanded his legs to move. Those worked, at least.  

As he made his way to the main street, his palm started to sweat inside his pocket. He could see his breath in every tense exhale, and still, he was boiling hot under his jacket. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d remove it, because even with a sleeve hanging loose off his shoulder, he could at least keep up the pretense there was something inside. People would have to look twice before they realized. Wasn’t so easy to hide a missing arm in a short sleeve shirt.  

Still—he was thankful as he weaved his way upstream through the crowd that he wasn’t as broad as he used to be. A couple months' worth of weight loss, diminished muscle mass, and one less limb will do that do a guy.  

He used to be the sort of man that women would glance at as he passed by. Charming smile. Infectious energy. He could make a woman bite shamelessly at the edge of her bottom lip with a single trail of his eyes along her figure. Extend a hand, offer a drink and a dance. He used to hold confidence in every ounce of his body.  

Now, he kept his eyes on the pavement. He hid from the sun and the curious looks of strangers under the brim of a baseball cap. No one looked twice in his direction. He was invisible these days and that was just the way he liked it.  

By the time he reached the VA, he was surprised to find it a little less than pristine. The windows were dirty with handprints and smudges, the window panes covered in soot. A few of the roofing panels were missing from harsh New York winters. Even some of the outer brick wall had seen some weathering.  

Though, if he were honest, it wasn’t usual at all. Made some sense that the VA was left to wash and wear on its own, deteriorating in front of a busy street of onlookers, right out in plain sight. It was how Bucky felt after he’d come home from his last tour— discarded. Placed upon a pedestal, but only as long as you wear the uniform, only as long as you’re staring down the other end of a barrel. Once you’re shipped back home and cast out from desert, you’re made to fend for yourself. Pull up your bootstraps. Adjust.

Bucky wasn’t sure how to do that anymore. Sam insisted this would help. The people at the VA were good, he’d said. They were like him. They’d understand.  

While Bucky was suspicious, it was enough to drag him a couple blocks from his apartment. It was more than he’d done in weeks anyway. Sam would put on his makeshift shrink hat and call that a meaningful step. Bucky would call it pathetic.  

He stared at the double doors, focusing on dark red rust on the metal hinges. He wondered if he put enough pressure on the latch if it would snap clean off. It looked sharp on the edges, too. Someone could easily cut themselves on it if they weren’t careful—

BEEEEEEP!

A jolt surged through Bucky’s chest enough to nearly knocked him off his feet.  

Sudden flashes of a sweltering heat, the unnatural vibration of the desert under his feet. The car horn echoed into the back of his head, longer than it should have, and his ears started to ring. His vision felt tunneled and Bucky quickly stumbled his way through the double doors just to escape the blare of the horn outside.  

It took a minute to adjust to the dim lighting. It was darker inside than what he was expecting. He blinked a few times, hand resting on the wall to hold his balance as he looked around, shaking himself from the memories.  

Lamps were spread throughout the common room to offset the abrasive overhead lighting left untouched. Bucky started to wonder if he maybe it was on purpose, if he wasn’t the only one who had become sensitive to these things, when Sam walked into the room.  

He froze.  

“Holy shit!” Sam’s mouth rose up into that goddamn know-it-all smile, wide enough to show teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, and Bucky winced. Sam started to laugh as he crossed the space to where Bucky was standing. “I didn’t think you’d actually come!”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, “I’m here. Don’t make this a big thing.”

“Who me?” Sam scoffed, feigning offense. “You know Steve’s the one who’s going to blow this up. He might throw a welcome party if you ever show up to the support group.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s not happening.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Sam nodded, though he was still smiling. He looked almost... proud? It didn’t sit well in Bucky’s stomach. “Still, got you out of that cramped apartment, didn’t I? You open those curtains yet or are you still living like a vampire?”

Bucky glared at him. Sure, Sam was right... but he didn’t need to know that.  

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Sam put a hand on Bucky’s back to guide him down the hall.  

He was only one of two people Bucky tolerated touching him at all and he was lucky he didn’t flinch anymore. Even an innocent touch from his own mother when she tried to hold his hand after he came back from his final tour had nearly left him in a panic attack. She’d cried as Bucky desperately tried to gather his breath, shoving her away as if she’d burned him.  

Sam and Steve didn’t give him much of a choice. They didn’t handle him with kid gloves or treat him like he was about to break. Even if he was splintering at the seams, you’d never be able to tell with how Sam and Steve were around him; like old times, like nothing had changed, like they were still three kids dressed in fresh uniforms with chips on their shoulders and a whole new world ahead of them.

After a while, the small pats on the back and the nudges in his side became a small comfort; not that he’d tell them. It was a strange feeling to both be repulsed by touch and crave it. But the topic didn’t come up much these days outside of his friends anyway. No one tried to touch him and he didn’t seek it out. It was easier that way.  

“The kitchen’s over here,” Sam said as he pointed into a room that had likely once been covered in white tiles and appliances, though now resembled more of a pale yellow. Two men were hunched over at the table, nursing coffee out of Styrofoam cups as a woman waited eagerly by a toaster.  

“Everything in there is free rein,” Sam added. “Always stocked with food from donations, though I would make sure to check the expirations on the milk before adding it to your coffee.” He shivered at an unpleasant memory and Bucky found the edge of his mouth curl, though he suppressed it rather quickly. 

The next room was mostly empty save for the wooden lined floors and chairs folded up against the wall. A sheet covered the small window peering inside that read ‘group in session when closed.’

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam started, to which Bucky narrowed his eyes, “but I’m not going to force you into the support group, Buck. You go when you’re ready. If you ever are. Talking about this stuff, or even listening to it... it isn't for everybody. Steve will get that, too. We all find our outlets eventually. You’ll find yours, too.”  

Bucky nodded, a swell of relief in his chest. He’d been forced into a mental evaluation by the army docs shortly after his discharge; something about routine testing, but he knew what they were looking for – what all those shrinks were looking for – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

The nightmares came first, soon after he’d returned to the States. It started in screams that burned deep into his throat, waking up neighbors at two in the morning, finding blood in his bed from injuries he’d caused in his sleep. Lately they’d manifested into sweat drenched in his sheets and a heart rate that couldn’t seem to even out until the sun rose.  

Then came the jumpiness – the flinching at every loud noise, thinking it was a bomb or the latch of a safety. He’d broken more glasses than he cared to admit, knocking them straight of his hand at the sound of a gunshot on the television.  

Then the paranoia settled in, then the hypervigilance. The anxiety in crowds and tight spaces was new, though. Add it to the list, he supposed.  

Through all of it, he never let the shrink catch on. He’d put on a smile and tell them he was proud of his service, that he’d serviced his country with honor and he was thankful to return to the civilian side of things for a change.  

It was bullshit.  

He was pissed. He lost an arm and half his mind to a war that recruited him young and idealistic right out of high school, when he was looking for a better life than what his neighborhood could offer, to put food on the table for his ma and sister. Pissed was understated.  

He wouldn’t find himself in Steve’s group; of that he was certain. You don’t talk about those things after you leave the desert. Hell, you barely acknowledge them while you’re there. It’s just how it works. It’s how you deal with it. Bucky didn’t allow himself to consider whether his method was doing him much better.

Sam walked him through the common areas, the lounge space, even a room with a pretty decent sized television and a shelf filled with DVDs. It was a nice enough place. Quiet. But so was his apartment.  

“Now this is the best room in the house.” Sam opened a door on his left, the hinges squeaking under an old wooden frame as he stepped inside.  

Bucky followed in closely behind and was surprised when a subtle scent of pine brushed his senses. A small candle was burning at the center of a coffee table, surrounding it were a few couches, all with mismatched fabrics, laid upon a carpet that looked to have been donated from an estate sale. The walls around him were lined with shelves, though they were completely empty. Cob webs hung in the corners and dust lined the wood.  

What caught his eye was a single cart at the edge of the room. It was filled with books, all in bright colors on the binding and tags from the Brooklyn Public Library piled high on top of one another, far beyond the confines of the cart itself.  

“Y/n? Where you at, kid? We got a newbie!” Sam called, nudging Bucky in the side with a playful wink he did not return.  

A figure suddenly jumped from behind the couch with a book in hand covered in layers of dust and crumbs. The sudden movement forced a flinch deep in Bucky’s chest, his breath held tight in his lungs, though he kept himself firm on the surface, like stone. It took a minute before he realized how tight he’d barreled his fist and he slowly released his grip before Sam could notice.  

“Been looking for this one for over a year!” you exclaimed, holding up the book for Sam to see. You brushed off the cover, restoring the original vibrant hue of the artwork. “Can’t even imagine the overdue fees I’ve racked up on this sucker...”

There was a strange lightness in your voice Bucky didn’t expect, a tenderness and a sunshine that didn’t belong amongst the dark overcast of the men and women who occupied these rooms. It certainly sat in dangerous contrast to the gravel and stone in Bucky’s voice and the clouds that usually followed in his wake.

He glanced down at his clothes as you approached; a pair of old ripped jeans from a few years ago, a faded t-shirt, and his army jacket hung over his shoulders. Dull and raggedy, ripping at the seams.

But you? Dressed in the warmest shade of a red knit sweater, a gentle glow on your cheeks, a softness about your movements, you resembled the sort of sunset at the end of a highway one would stop the car to capture on film. Inviting. Tender and ethereal. Lovely.  

You stepped closer and he noticed the knees of your jeans were covered in dust, your palms too. Messy in the pursuit of happiness, like a child on a playground. You didn’t seem to mind the dust as you brushed it off your knees, holding the found book close to your chest like an extension of your own heart.

“Blame it on Lang. He's always losing stuff around here,” Sam offered as you set the book on the cart. You started to laugh and swatted Sam in the arm. A pout perched on your lips, though it didn’t seem to last long. Your laugh was infectious.  

Bucky swallowed as he watched you; the way your smile wrinkled up into your eyes as if a face like yours was drawn and designed to curve at the lips and push dimples to your cheeks. It shined into the bright hues in your irises and Bucky wondered if you would keep smiling like that forever, if it were possible that he could stare into the sun and not be burned; if instead, he could find warmth in its embrace.  

His heart stammered, his breath shallow, but it wasn’t unpleasant like it had been on the busy streets. It was something new, a sensation he hadn’t had since before he signed his name to a cause that took his arm and his dignity.  

Y/n, Sam had called you. It was a beautiful name. He didn’t know if he could even find things beautiful again after what he’d seen overseas. You were the first, he supposed.  

He must have been staring too long, because your lips were moving to words he didn’t hear, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were on him. His heart skipped, frozen in embarrassment.  

“This must be your first day of school,” you teased, extending your right hand to him.  

Bucky stared down at it, heart pounding, and before Sam could politely tell you that Bucky didn’t really do that sort of thing, he pulled his hand from his pocket and shook it. You had a firmer grip than he was expecting, but still soft. Your fingers were like ice and it was a nice contrast to the swelter he felt under his jacket.  

Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised by Bucky's sudden willingness to take the hand of a stranger, though thankfully he didn’t say anything. A shit eating grin curved up upon his lips and that, Bucky could have done without.  

“Thought it was time I checked it out,” Bucky said, his voice a little dry. You let go of his hand and Bucky found he missed the contact almost instantly.  

“Dragged him here by the skin of his teeth is more like it,” Sam interjected and Bucky’s ears burned red. He shot Sam a glare, who only shrugged, unbothered by his humiliation of his friend. “Been trying to get his sorry ass through the door for a few months now.”

You nodded, though your smile never wavered. Your eyes remained on Bucky, listening to Sam, but intently studying the lines on Bucky’s face. It left him feeling exposed, but somehow, even as his own gaze trailed to the floor, he didn’t mind you watching him like that, like maybe you found worth in what you saw. He adjusted his stance, suddenly remembering the startling absence on his left.  

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” you said, brushing Sam off in his teasing. “I’ve been volunteering at this place for a little over a year. We got good people here. I’m sure you’ll fit right in...” you paused, biting on your lip.  

“Bucky,” he offered because he could tell you were waiting for it. You smiled at his name and a sense of pride burned bright in his chest. God, if he could just make you smile like that again...

“Bucky’s a cool name,” you grinned, though Sam rolled his eyes. “That short for something?”

“Don’t lie to the new kid, Y/n. We all know it’s corny as hell,” Sam interrupted playfully before Bucky could get a word in. You wacked Sam on the shoulder and Bucky felt the edges of his lips curve. It felt strange, achy, like he hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe he hadn’t.  

“Buchanan,” Bucky answered, though he quickly added, “but my first name’s James. James Barnes.”

“Well, James Barnes,” you started, exchanging a knowing look with Sam that made Bucky’s stomach twist in knots, “I run a book club of sorts on Sunday evenings around six. You should swing by. We’re always looking for new members.”

“Y/n works at the Brooklyn library most days,” Sam explained. “We’re lucky to have her. Never thought I’d see so many tattooed men with biceps the size of my head sitting in a circle talking ‘bout books, but Y/n works magic. Everyone loves her. Helps that her book club is pretty unconventional.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Unconventional?”

Sam started to say more, but you pouted your lips at him and he left the words on the edge of his tongue. He held up his hands in defense and took a step back, returning the smile to your face.  

“Don’t listen to him,” you said, laughing so sweetly Bucky was sure his knees might give out at any second. “It’s a good time, I promise. No pressure at all.”

Bucky nodded, considering his options. The idea of seeing you again could make the walk down to the VA worth it, but he wasn’t sold on the concept of sitting in a room full of ex-combat vets probably using a shared book as a proxy for a support group. He wondered if you had them reading something about PTSD or adjusting to civilian life or a memoir of some guy embellishing his time overseas to make a quick buck.  

But he wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, so he asked, “what are you reading?”  

You shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.”  

Bucky raised an eyebrow, confused.  

“Just think about it,” you suggested as you unclicked the lock at the bottom of the cart. The front wheel was broken and you struggled to get an angle to move in the direction you pushed it. “I should head back to the library. It was really nice to meet you, Bucky. I’ll see you later, Sam.”

Bucky nodded, finding himself searching for something else to say, some kind of excuse to get you to stay longer, but came up empty. You smiled at him, all bright and starry eyed, and his knees felt weak again. Shit.  

“Don’t let Stark talk your ear off on the way out,” Sam warned, a laugh in his voice.  

“I think I know my boys around here by now, Samuel,” you teased back. Bucky couldn’t quite tell if it was a pang of jealousy in his stomach or an eagerness to be included. It was a strange rush of feelings he hadn’t tapped into in years; not necessarily unpleasant, but certainly unfamiliar.  

You paused by the door, turning back and capturing Bucky’s eye one last time. “Sunday at six, alright? I’ll see you there.”

He didn’t say anything, but you seemed to take his silence as confirmation. You gave him a final wave before you disappeared into the hallway. He could hear the click of the broken front wheel on your cart echoing down the hall.  

Bucky and Sam followed you out of the room and hung back by the makeshift library doors.  

“What did I tell you!” Sam cheered, nudging Bucky hard enough on the side to knock him off his balance. He was too fixated on watching grumpy old men and stone-faced women pass by in the hallway with smiles on their faces as they saw you.  

“It’s, uh, it’s not bad.” Bucky waited until you disappeared out the front doors and onto the busy sidewalks before he turned to Sam. He was watching him with a sort of I-told-you-so look that made Bucky want to slap the dimples straight from his face. “...what?”

“Nothing, man.” Sam shrugged, though there was something lingering in the smirk he wore, like maybe he knew something Bucky didn’t.  

He didn’t care for that one bit.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mind The Gap: One

Summary: In an age of Heroes, there's always one more Villain. Can Shang- Chi handle his girlfriend needing to walk a Hero's Journey of her own? And how will he handle the two of you not being the only "people" in your relationship?

“Where are you?”

“I’m safe- well. Relatively speaking.”

“Y/N-” He tightened his grip on the phone like it was a life line. Like if he clung on hard enough, he could find you somehow.

“I promise to explain it all when I get back,” you say slowly, in what you hope is a relaxed tone of voice. It’s a little had to do with a desert Eagle pointed directly at your nose but for Shang-Chi, to keep him out of this you’d try.

“Please,” he whispered. He could hear the difference in your tone. It wasn’t your usual easy going voice. The one that filled him with a sense of calm. There was a sharpness. And under current he’d only heard once before. And it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Tell Katy I’m sorry I have to miss Karaoke night,” you try, hoping to break his concentration. “I have to go, I love you.”

And before he can get anything else out, the line goes dead. The line goes dead and he can feel a hollow ache in his chest. One that tells him you’re in trouble. Big trouble. And without being able to keep you on the phone, there’s no telling where you went.

“She’s smart,” Xialing said frowning. “Either she’s done this before or she was warned. But we couldn’t get a fix on her.”

“She’s an archive,” Shang Chi said, trying not to sound bitter, “Smart is an understatement.” He folded his arms and looked over Xailing’s shoulder frowning. There had to be a pattern. Something had to make sense. You were a creature of habit. Very particular habits. When you ate and when you slept was a strict schedule. And on the run you’d be trying to hold on to something… Unless that was all part of your cover, too.

“What happens if-”

Shang- Chi felt his head jerk up and his eyes narrow, making Katy flinch reflexively, “If we can’t find her?” he finished.

Katy nodded hesitantly and he exhaled slowly trying to rein in his temper, “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”

____

You toss your phone away carelessly and listen to the sound of a heavy boot crushing it under heel and scattering the pieces. But still, you don’t look away from the man pointing a gun at you.

“Not bad for a librarian… A little on the nose don’t you think?” he scoffed.

You force yourself into a nonchalant shrug and smile a little, “The best place to hide is in plain sight. At least some of the time.”

And that’s the last thing you managed to get out before that Desert Eagle cracked across the side of your face, sending you into the dark once more.

________

Wenwu watched his son pace, trying to stem the tide of panic. Your phone had gone from ringing out to nothing. Straight to voice mail.

“You got me, leave a message. Or don’t. Whatever.”

“Does she have enemies?”

Shang-Chi exhaled slowly and took a deep breath, “None. At least none that I know about. She avoided the snap but… There’s a bit of time before she wound up in the City she doesn’t really talk about.”

“So she could have enemies?”

He stopped and carded his fingers through his hair, “If not enemies because of who she is then… maybe because of what she is.”

“What she is?”

Shang Chi nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t even sure he completely understood. He only knew that your brother had warned him. Told him that there were things you could do that were… rare. That might attract attention. And he wasn’t sure if he could share that information. Even if it might bring you home. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. For all he knew you could be dying. You could be dead and it could already be too late. But if there was a chance… No matter how small, he could take your anger. He could take you never speaking to him again. As long as he knew you were alive.

She’s an- an Archive,” he said slowly. “At least. That’s what the world knows them as now, I guess.”

He watched in apprehension as he saw his Father’s eyes widen in understanding and it was clear that he’d met, or at least heard of the Archives before.

“What does she hold?” he asked, seriously.

“Secrets. Things that are hidden.”

Even as Shang-Chi heard himself say the words, he knew he didn’t understand, not really. That had been what your Brother had told him. Quickly. Quietly. While you were distracted with a tea kettle and getting out the mugs. And even his most intense searches could turn up no information.

“Secrets?” Wenwu repeated, “Such as?”

And all Shang-Chi could do was shrug. He’d seen you at work. Your fingers brushing the spines of books. Tenderly. Almost lovingly. And he’d thought that it was cute. That it was an extension of your curiosity. A love of knowing. He thought of the way you’d told him once that Libraries were where you felt at home. Where you felt safe. He thought of the evenings when he came to walk you home. The serenity in the security lights. The way you smiled at him. And his chest throbbed. The secrets you knew probably didn’t include any martial arts.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, leaning heavily against the table, hanging his head. “The only information I have came second hand from her brother. And even then, he only told me that she isn’t human. At least not all human.”

He didn’t like to think about it. And he didn’t like to think about the distance he tried to put between you when he found out. Or how that distance had lead him here. The reaction that had made you avoid coming to him for help. He felt the hand on the back of his neck. But it didn’t register. Not really. In the back of his head, he could hear you. A casual fact. Things about Aliester Crowley. Or Agrippa. Or the Knights Templar.

You’d always written off questions about it as being a weird kid. Or by reminding people that you had a doctorate in Anthropology. But it wasn’t… It never felt like that. It felt like you had just… said it.

Shang Chi didn’t need to be looking at his father to know he was frowning. Thinking. “If we can’t get to her, I need to try to call her brother.”

“What is her brother?”

“An engineer,” Shang Chi said smiling a little. And a former Marine. But he was going to keep that to himself. He had a hunch that your best chance wasn’t going to involve his Father going on a recruiting mission simultaneously.

Wenwu’s frown deepened but he nodded as he watched his son pull a card from his wallet and dial the number.

“Kai-”

“We have a problem,” Shang Chi said quickly, “Y/N is missing.”

“Missing missing or went camping for a couple days?”

“Missing, Missing,” he clarified, “I got a phone call an hour ago and she hung up before we could trace it.”

“Let me call you back-”

And the line went dead before he could say more. “Shit,” he hissed. He wasn’t sure what Pandora’s box had been opened with that phone call. And he hated bumbling around in the dark. He hated not knowing if you were safe. If you were hurt.

“He said he’d call back,” Katy said helpfully, “Maybe he’s calling family.”

“I don’t know if there’s any family to call,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose. He could kick himself for not pressing you for answers. He hadn’t because he’d not been prepared to give you any. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to drag you into his life but. It was looking more and more like he might not have any choice.

When the phone in his hand rang he almost dropped it and had to fumble with it for a second before he could answer, “Kai-”

“I’m assuming you aren’t alone,” the other man said shortly, “I’ll text you the coordinates. Get there as quickly as you can. I’m not sure if we’re going to extract her or clean up the mess. Those idiots have a tiger by the tail and they don’t even know it.”

The call ended and all Shang-Chi could do was stare at the phone for a second, “What the fu-”

“Y/N,” Katy demanded, “Our Y/N? The dirty chai loving, vintage wearing Y/N that cried for 30 minutes at the end of the brave little toaster?”

“Evidently-” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Does anyone else here have a secret badass origin story?” she yelped, “What the hell?”

_________

The coordinates were, So far as anyone could tell, in the middle of nothing. A waste land of tall grass and trails left by herds of cattle in Montana.

But, even without asking he knew he was in the right place. There was a palpable sense of… mayhem in the air. Like the feeling before a nasty storm. Rising anxiety and energy crackling on the wind. Everyone was affected and everyone was quiet.

It wasn’t until they got closer that Shang-Chi and Katy could pick Kai out of the small knot of people. And it was something of a comfort that he looked relaxed. Or at least unconcerned.

“Hey,” Kai said taking a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the sky. He didn’t seem the least Perturbed that Shang-Chi hadn’t come alone. Or that they were all dressed for a fight.

“What-”

“We’re waiting,” Kai said shrugging. “She’s got to take the vortex apart. Then we mop up whatever comes out of it.”

Almost on cue, a Motor Cycle comes roaring over the flat ground as an explosion rattled the ground beneath their feet. “2 hell hounds and at least a baker's dozen in demons, grades 4 to 2.” The words sound like they're coming from you but. You don’t look like you. Skin coated in soot and eyes shining like silver in moonlight. It makes Shang-chi want to shake you.

“Y/N-” He starts, but when you look at him, he doesn’t know what to say. Or where to start.

“You’ll know what it is when you see it,” you say, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass. “Take it down quickly. Headshots. If it doesn’t go down run for me. Demons don’t play. And, I make better bait. The rest of you are kinda like designer purses. Nice to have but ultimately disposable.”

“Is the vortex closed?” Kai asked grinding the cigarette out with his heel.

“With half the Golden Dagger on the other side of it. Everyone else scattered before I could get anything else for Lea.”

And then there wasn’t time for you to answer anything else. As the small hoard surged into the open field, Kai almost lazily tossed you the other sword he’d had strapped across his back and it was all a blur.

You were a blur. Almost preternaturally fast as you dismembered the bodies that hurtled towards you. It wasn’t until the last demon crackled on the fire that you crumpled like paper, sagging heavily against Shang-Chi who had made his way to your side.

“Shi-” he caught you, if only just. The dead weight taking him by surprise. And the warmth of the blood running over his hands. He could only gasp before the rest of Kai’s team descended like a plague of helpful locusts, loading you quickly onto the nearest stretcher and starting to try and repair the damage.

“I wonder how long she was out,” Kai mused, lighting another cigarette. “Or if she remembers anything. She doesn’t always.”

Shang- Chi opened his mouth to ask, wiping blood off his lip with the back of his hand, but Kai only shook his head. “She told you she’d explain. Let her do it.”

“Will she be okay?” He heard himself ask, but as he watched you loaded into a helicopter, nothing felt real. He’d just watched you dismember a demon. You’d looked at him… But hadn’t seen him. You didn’t look at him like you even knew who he was.

“She will,” Kai answered, looking at him sympathetically. “It takes time… but. The Archive has a vested interest in keeping her alive.”

____________

“Hey.”

“You look like hell.”

“Gee thanks,” you sigh, wincing as you try and sit up straighter. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did,” he said. And he can’t stop the frown when he looks down at your hands. They’re clean now. No trace of the black blood you’d been coated in. You looked like you. Your eyes were the same color that they’d always been.

“I’m sorry that I lied,” you tell him. “That I didn’t come clean when you came back from Ta-lo with Katy. I just… I guess I was still holding out hope that I could be normal.” You look away from him, taking a deep breath. “Becoming an Archive… I always hoped it wouldn’t be me. And then it was. And it was… it was a blessing and a curse.”

“You weren’t born an Archive?”

You shake your head and exhale slowly, “I was born a witch. If Lea and my grandmother can be believed, the most powerful witch born into this family in 400 years. I became An Archive when I was 12.” You swallow hard and take the hand that reaches for yours. “It- I remember the pain. I don’t remember much from before. I remember smoke and screaming. And I remember… I remember hunters and- and- when I woke up I was here.”

Shang-Chi squeezed your hand and reached up to touch your cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. He’d been ready to be angry. He’d been hurt. But now all he wanted was to pull you closer. “The scars on your back-”

“I’ve been told it’s best that I don’t know,” you murmur. “Lea- She knows but.” You stop and take another deep breath.

For a moment, there is silence. It stretches out around the two of you while Shang-Chi digests those pieces of information and you try to try to put together a coherent explanation. Beyond the door, you can hear voices mingling in the kitchen. Katy. Kai. Lea. Wenwu. Xialing. Cousins. Your Grandmother. Both familiar and strange.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Shang- Chi asked quietly.

“Calling you… I know I told you I’d explain I just- I don’t know how.”

Shang-Chi smiles a little, “It’s probably harder given there’s a lot you don’t remember.”

“A little,” you murmur. “Sometimes, the Archive condescends to tell me what they’ve been doing with my body but other times? It feels a little like waking up from closing down the Karaoke bar.”

“How much time are you missing now?”

“A day. Maybe two. I’m not sure.”

“What’s the longest time span you don’t remember?”

“Close to a year,” you sigh. “If my physical body is in danger, The Archive will take the driver’s seat until the danger has passed OR It’s deemed that I can handle it on my own… Now that I’m older and I’ve grown into the powers I was given I spend a lot more time driving.”

“Even when you’re with me?”

“The Archive seems to think it can trust you. Though if it’s just with my physical body or with the things we know I’m not sure. Sometimes it views those things as one and the same.”

“Do you- I mean. When we’re alone?”

“You mean when we’re having sex?” The blush that blooms over his cheeks makes you smile a little. “I mean. The Archive lives in my head. Sometimes it has notes though… I don’t know how it would know-”

“Notes?”

You nod and roll your eyes. And even if he’s confused and a little offended, he can’t help but chuckle, “What kind of notes?”

“Ugh-” you groan, “No. We’re not humoring the freeloader in my head.”

[stutterfly]

Failure to Communicate

This was a joint collab fic that @gukslut​ and I worked on, commissioned by @cypherft-v as part of our fundraising for Black Lives Matter. Thank you for contributing! Banner & moodboard by me :)

{Pairing} Park Jimin/ Reader

{Genre} Enemies to Lovers/ College AU/ comedy/ smut

{Rating} Mature - Explicit 

{Word Count} 21K

{Warnings} oral, kissing, fingering, protected sex, biting, marking, other filthy shit

{Summary} You've always had a crush on Park Jimin, but the truth is that you're just one of many. He just so happens to be the TA for one of your classes, and you're determined to make your feelings known. Whether or not he takes you seriously remains to be seen.

{Prompt} Could either of you write an enemies to lover story about jimin and y/n set in college where he was her TA and got her kicked out of her major bc he didnt give her the grade she needed and was generally unhelpful? Posted on tumblr on August 17, 2020 by stutterfly and cross-posted to Ao3. I do not allow reposting, translations, or edits, to any platform, including YouTube.

Ten more minutes. You can barely see the clock from your seat against the wall. The lecture hall isn't crowded by any means; to the contrary, this Tuesday/Thursday psych class is usually pretty empty. You could have just as easily sat in the middle, but it doesn't afford you the same view. Well, it does. But not the one you prefer. It's just that positioned front and center, your staring would look more obvious. At least that's what you're telling yourself. If you stare from the corner it's less conspicuous, which is important because you do a lot of staring in this class. Park Jimin is the TA.

The man in question sits off to the side at a table of his own, typing away on his laptop. This reminds you that you haven’t been doing much other than quietly ogling from a distance. The only notes you're taking are lackluster doodles of his appearance and the occasional squiggle of your pen at the quiet sighs he lets out when he stretches his back after sitting hunched over his laptop for too long.

Jimin is absolutely breathtaking — even in an ugly plaid three-piece suit and perfectly round spectacles that would look horrid on any normal person. You're definitely not the only one who has noticed. His beautiful features and fantastic bone structure forge a man who is borderline ethereal. With soft eyes, big pouty lips, a flawless complexion, and a flirtatious demeanor he has enraptured many over the years. He's popular... like, really popular.

You begrudgingly count yourself among those love-smitten numbers. You know it’s hopeless and illogical. He could have any person he so desired at any point in time. Why would he ever choose someone like you? If you’d been paying any sort of attention to the subject matter of this class you might know that things like feelings and life’s rhetorical questions often don’t make sense.

But you’re shit at psychology. You’re more of a blunt poet at heart, and that heart is often hidden behind twisted brambles of anxiety and sharp thorns of insecurity.

You are but a speck of dirt upon his round glasses. It’s been a hopeless, silent crush for some time, but now that he’s assisting the professor in this core requirement for your academic studies, he has to acknowledge your presence. You’re a speck he has to look at before swiping you out of sight with a wave of his hand.

He's the object of just about everyone's affections, and rightfully so. He's not just gorgeous, he's charismatic, charming, and such a smooth talker. The word on campus says those pretty lips of his can do a lot of other really wonderful things too. You've been watching him chew on them for the past five minutes straight, wondering how many times his deliciously pink tongue can sweep over them before he makes them chapped.

Maybe they're chapped already. Maybe you should offer him your chapstick? Or maybe you should never talk to him at all, because you don't stand a chance. Park Jimin would chew you up and leave you bleeding out with a broken heart, and you know it. That doesn't stop you from imagining all the ways he could take you in his mouth first. You could watch those pretty lips all day long, but you’ll settle for an hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Looking up as if he's been paying attention all along, Jimin attempts to figure out where the professor is in the lesson. It’s obvious that he wasn't listening at all and was instead answering messages. It would be nice if he could say they were messages for class, but that's not true and Jimin is a lot of things, but he isn't a liar. He's been talking to Chungha, his current flavor of the week.

He turns toward the students as the professor dismisses the class and there you are, eager and awestruck. It takes every ounce of self control Jimin has not to roll his eyes. Another fan, he presumes. You can't handle him, but he can tell by the embarrassed way you tear your eyes from him to look anywhere else that it hasn't stopped you from thinking about it.

Trying to seem nonchalant now is a lost cause. Jimin has no shame and although you busied yourself by packing up your neglected textbooks and darting your gaze to various points in the room for a straight minute, Jimin is still staring at you when you look back at him. He smirks when your eyes meet. It's not a flirty kind of smirk, you sadly note. It's condescending in your eyes, which further solidifies your theory: Jimin is too much for you no matter how badly you want a taste of him.

"Did you take notes?" he asks, nodding toward your backpack where you've just tucked your computer and sketched up notebook.

"I- uhh..." You panic.

"You know that was all about the exam next week. You're gonna need those notes if you want to have any hope of passing it," he tells you, shoving his own computer into his bag.

"I was just.. um, I was--" you attempt to explain.

"Busy staring at me?" He smiles and you know he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teasing oh gyou.

You balk at the blatant accusation and force a half-laugh, half-scoff from your throat. “No.”

"Yes," he corrects with a light and mellifluous laugh. "Is there pen on my face or were you hoping you could be?"

"What?" you choke, eyes watering at the idea.

Jimin shakes his head, laughing softly to himself as he remembers his surroundings. With a small clear of his throat and the subtle adjusting of his tie, he provides a suggestion for you. “Get them from Taehyung.”

"Get what?" you ask, drawing a blank on what this conversation was even about. It's the first time you've ever actually talked to him outside of your dreams and it’s proving to be a lot harder than you thought it would be.

"The notes, Y/N. Get the notes from Taehyung, you know, the ones that you didn't take today because you were daydreaming about my mouth," he tells you, heading for the door.

Taehyung, who is the only other person left in the room wiggles his fingers at you in a wave. When you turn back, Jimin is gone.

"Need the notes?" Taehyung asks, voice free of judgement.

"Please," you sigh, relieved that he'd waited.

He spins his laptop toward you, where an email is already open with the notes attachment added. "Drop your address in there," he says standing up.

"Thank you so much," you say, frantically typing your student email into the space.

"Hey, y/n?" Taehyung asks, the bristles of curiosity or concern painting his tone with a soft comfort.

"Yeah?"

"Jimin is a fool," he tells you.

"What?"

"If you were looking at me like that, I'd at least ask for your number." Tae offers a combination of large hopeful eyes and a giant goofy grin as he holds his phone out for you.

Giggling, you take it from his hand and add your number to his contacts list. He purses his lips to hide his excitement as he takes his phone back. He slides it into his pocket before hastily packing the rest of his things into his leather messenger bag.

"Thanks, Taehyung," you say, waving on your way out the door.

"Wait!" he shouts after you, half of the contents of his bag threatening to spill onto the floor as he scrambles away from the table. He adjusts his belongings and clears his throat, instantly adopting a smooth persona. "Where are you going? I'll walk you."

"My car?"

"Wanna come eat with me?" he wonders. He's confident, but it's not the same kind of arrogant confidence that Jimin oozes. He's softer. He feels more real, more attainable. He obviously knows he's a catch and he’s definitely expressed the same about you. What could be the harm in letting an attractive man stroke your ego a little bit? If you’re being honest with yourself, you can use the boost after such a pathetic display towards your crush.

"Oh, uh... yeah. I guess so," you agree, letting him lead the way out the door.

"Cool." Tae takes his glasses off and hooks them in his shirt. Pulling a snapback from his bag, he pushes his hair back and puts it on before he swings his messenger bag over his shoulder. Damn. Why did that raise his hotness like ten whole levels?

"You like hamburgers?"

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Taehyung slips into the seat next to you on Thursday, brushing against you very deliberately as he passes.

"Hello, sugar," he says, licking his lips as he spares a fleeting glance down at your chest.

"Hey, Tae," you greet him while your eyes are still locked on Jimin.

"Still on Jimin, huh?" he asks. He doesn't sound particularly disappointed, or surprised for that matter. He's just stating a fact. You're relieved he's not offended. Letting him eat you out in his backseat after dinner was probably not your best decision, although it seems like it meant about as much to him as it did to you.

"I don't know," you say with a shrug.

"It's okay. I can't blame you. I could put in a good word for you if you want. We're close," he informs you, sitting back and spreading his legs wide under the desk.

Sighing, you rest your cheek in your palm. "I've got a plan," you confess.

"Oh yeah?" he chuckles. He playfully knocks his knee against yours as if to signal for you to spill. "Do tell."

"I think I need a little extra help with this material," you tell Taehyung.

"Good luck, Y/n. I hope he can squeeze you into his busy schedule, but hey, if he can't, I'm totally down to squeeze into yours anytime."

Looking at Tae out of the corner of your eye, you smile at the grin he wears and start to laugh at the way he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"I'll keep that in mind," you joke.

"Please do."

The minutes drag on as you wait for this class to end. Doing your best to seem a little less obsessive this time, you make a point to take notes and look at the teacher more than the TA. Jimin still catches you staring at least three times. It's embarrassing, but not enough to stop you from approaching him as the room empties out.

"Hi, y/n," Jimin sings, giving you a knowing smile.

"Hi." You tuck your hair behind your ear, and smile back.

"Do you need something?" he wonders, purposefully combing his fingers through his silver hair.

Damn, do you ever.

"I was wondering if you had time to help me. I'm struggling with this material and I could really use some one-on-one guidance." Leaning over his desk you make sure he has a good view right down your shirt, not that his eyes wander from yours. While he shows restraint in his gaze you swear he briefly drags his bottom lip through his teeth before he catches himself.

"One-on-one, huh?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek, looking amused. "I bet Taehyung would give you some one-on-one guidance."

You're sure that's true, but it's not Taehyung you're after. Taehyung isn’t the TA. Taehyung isn’t getting paid to help teach a course. Of course you want to say that and in your head you rehearse the words but you can’t seem to find a way to phrase them eloquently enough. Why do you always get stupid brain around him? Your plan is quickly falling apart.

Jimin waits for your response with his eyebrows raised. You know he's two seconds away from leaving you gaping at him and walking out the door, so you do something incredibly rash and stupid.

"I like you," you blurt out.

Jimin smiles. He knows that, obviously. He also knows damn well that you're perfectly capable of looking back at your notes by yourself. You're definitely smart and dedicated enough to study on your own. He can't help teasing you anyway.

"Everyone likes me," he casually informs you as he plants his palms on the desk and leans on them.

He peeks over the edge of his glasses as he looks up at you, like some kind of otherworldly sexy librarian. If deities ever needed a librarian, Jimin wouldn’t even need a resume. His charm and seduction are so strong that you almost miss his rejection. Almost. You're stunned into silence when it hits you. Just as you're about to tuck and run, he smiles again.

"But,” he pauses to click his tongue thoughtfully, “I think I have some time on Saturday. I'll give you my number.” He rips a corner of paper out of his notebook. "Is it okay if I come to your place? Do you have a dorm or…”

"Oh. My apartment’s fine!" you flounder, trying to remember how to speak coherent sentences. Jimin. In your room. How many dreams have you had about this moment? "I mean, yeah, sure. You'll come to mine, yeah."

Jimin giggles and it sounds like pealing bells. You're lost in the beautiful sound of it until you realize that he's laughing at you. "You okay with that? We could meet somewhere else instead."

"I wouldn't mind you in my room," you sigh. Open mouth; insert foot.

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a chance to backtrack, but you're both well aware you meant every word of that.

"Okay, y/n. See you Saturday then. Call me."

"I’ll call you," you repeat, resisting the urge to slap your palm over your face. You sound like an idiot. Stupid brain strikes again.

Jimin barely notices, all too used to girls falling over themselves to get his attention. You’re no different to him, just another pretty face in a sea of women entranced by the way he walks, talks, and breathes. It’s not his fault he’s so damn pretty. He does note that you’re brave, however. Not many people come on to him so brazenly, and that’s something worth rewarding. Besides, he feels a sort of obligation to help you out. He is getting paid to help out the professor, after all.

He winks at you as he leaves, taking your breath and your sanity with him. You have Park Jimin’s phone number. Park Jimin is going to be in your apartment in two days. Maybe you didn’t bomb that as hard as you thought.

A slow clap beckons you to look back for the source and you find Taehyung looking back at you with his boxy grin. When he’s sure he’s got your attention he raises his two thumbs up in approval.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin is not surprised when Chungha disappears into the clusterfuck of bodies as soon as they step into the party. They may have come here together, but their fling is on its last leg and they both know it. She wants him off her couch, doesn't appreciate the feeling of tied-down-ness that comes with your friend with benefits staying over all the time. She's ready to move on, that means he has to as well.

Jimin isn't even sure whose house this is, but he’s happy to tag along for free booze and maybe a new face to go home with. Luckily, his friends are never far, and he finds them easily. Getting absolutely hammered in the backyard makes them hard to miss. Jungkook is the only one looking particularly bored as a very drunk Taehyung hangs all over him talking about the sweetest thing he ever tasted.

"Why so glum?" Jimin asks, nudging Jungkook's shoulder with his own.

"I'm the designated driver tonight," Jungkook sighs, pushing Taehyung off of him.

Taehyung slumps to the ground, immediately entranced by the stars above him. Jungkook kicks at him gently.

"Where's your girlfriend? I haven't seen you without your tongue down her throat all week," Jungkook wonders, looking behind Jimin for the woman in question.

"Girlfriend," Jimin repeats with a snort. "Hilarious. That's not a thing. She's probably looking for her next kill."

Jungkook regards Jimin thoughtfully, his eyebrows scrunching toward each other. "If you take over DD you can have the futon."

Jungkook loves his futon. It's one of his most prized possessions. He keeps it very clean and being allowed to get anywhere near it is a privilege. Jimin is pretty sure he goes over it with a lint roller as part of his nighttime routine. It's also incredibly comfortable.

Jimin releases a breath in a tortured groan as he thinks over his options. He could get black out drunk and wake up god knows where with a terrible hangover, or he could hang out and watch his friends get black out drunk and then wake up on a futon that feels more like a cloud than a mattress, a little slice of heaven in Jungkook and Taehyung's little apartment.

"Okay," Jimin relents. "Give me the keys. I’ll stick to water for the rest of the night."

"Ah, I love you man," Jungkook praises, tossing his keys in Jimin's general direction before grabbing the newly opened can of beer out of Taehyung's hand below him. Taehyung, still staring up at the sky with a glazed smile, doesn't react. It takes Jungkook all of five seconds to pour the contents of the can straight down his throat. He follows this by smashing the can in a bicep curl with a giggle and a bashful smile.

"Do it again," an unfamiliar girly voice pleads from across the table. She tosses him another can and he repeats the action, turning away when he's finished so that he doesn't have to see her reaction. Jimin knows what's going to happen once his friend gets a few more beers in him. Jungkook is going to go apeshit. There will be no trace of this shy hunk of muscle who blushes and coils away from pretty girls. He'll be chest thumping shirtless and picking up everyone who gets close enough to touch. Half of them will probably end up thrown in the pool, if history is anything to go by, and he'll most likely have the hottest girl at the party slobbering all over him in the backseat when Jimin drives him home tonight.

Jimin's suspicions prove true an hour later when Jungkook throws Tae in the pool. Jimin runs to the edge of it in a panic. Tae was very drunk so he needs to make sure he's not just sinking like a stone. That was his first mistake, although he'd make it again to keep Taehyung safe. His second mistake was wearing these ridiculously tight ass jeans.

Any other pair and he might have been able to pry his cell phone from his pocket the second he felt JK's hands on his back. Had he worn any other pair of pants he might have been able to throw it to safety in the grass before he hit the surface of the pool. As it stands, his skin tight jeans are soaked through, Tae is slightly more sober than he was when Jimin arrived and is swimming just fine, and Jimin's phone is totally destroyed.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

You should be sleeping. It's three in the morning. You should definitely not be awake right now. Lifting your phone up for the three hundredth time tonight, you're not surprised to have no new notifications. That text you sent to Jimin hours ago has gone unanswered.

You typed and erased it at least ten times, agonized over what to say, and how to say it. By the time you pressed send, the message was nothing like how it began and you noticed a second too late that you didn't even tell him who you were. Adding a second text saying 'it's y/n btw' seemed so desperate. You've been waiting for him to ask who you are for so long that you've convinced yourself he already knows and he's avoiding you on purpose. Who else would have said "i'm excited to see you tomorrow" in a text about meeting up to study? He knows it's you. He has to. The alternative possibility that he plans to see other people tomorrow too is too bothersome to accept. You really need to let this go and try to sleep.

Keys in the door stop you from dragging yourself off the couch. Your roommate will see you and accuse you of trying to run away from him to avoid something. He’s right, of course. You’ve attempted to flee from your problems in the past, against his advice. Now you know better than to try. It's much better to face things with Yoongi head on. At the very least, maybe he's got something helpful to say.

"Why're you up? You look sad." His words slur just the tiniest bit and he leans against the wall for stability as he takes off his shoes just inside the door. You see right through his attempts at nonchalance. He's tipsy.

"A boy I like isn't texting me back," you admit with a scowl. "You didn't drive, did you?"

"No, friend dropped me off. Is it Taehyung?" Yoongi asks, not pausing for an answer. "I wouldn't worry too much. He talked about you a lot tonight. He was really drunk though. You should go to bed. He'll probably text you in the morning."

You don't bother to correct Yoongi. Admitting you're harboring a huge fucking crush on the campus it-boy is the most foolish thing you could possibly do. It's embarrassing and naive and Yoongi would pity you for falling for someone so far out of your league. Maybe you should just date Taehyung and forget about Jimin. He sure seems to have forgotten about you.

When the morning comes and your only notifications are an email from Target and a text from your mom, you muster up every bit of courage you could possibly find in your body and call him. You’d rather know if he’s deliberately ignoring you now than agonize over other possibilities all day.

It doesn't even ring. His phone goes straight to voicemail. You try again, and a third time. Voicemail, voicemail. Could it be you rushed putting his number in and did it incorrectly? You dig through your backpack for the slip of paper he gave you to double check, and sure enough, it’s his number. He's ignoring you. He turned off his phone to solidify that fact in your brain.

Last night, laying awake waiting for his name to light up your phone, you felt pretty damn bad. In the daylight, with rest and a clear head, you're absolutely crushed. He was supposed to come over. You had plans. It was stupid of you to think you could earn space in his mind or time in his schedule. He played you, and it hurts.

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Studying on your own proves more difficult than you imagined. With only Tae's notes to go by, you feel like you're quizzing yourself on things you already know. Turning to the textbook doesn't give you the specialized knowledge you need for the exam. You could never hope to memorize enough of it that you'd retain something pertinent.

On top of that, your heart hurts. You were so close to spending time together you could practically smell the subtle scent of his cologne. He pulled the rug right out from under you so fast, your ass is sore from falling on it so hard.

Sunday and Monday pass miserably in their slowness as you continue to nurse your tender rejected heart. You spend two days mulling over how you're going to face Jimin on Tuesday, let alone how you’re going to pass this exam when you're so disgustingly focused on figuring out why he stood you up and ignored you all weekend.

Tuesday comes too soon and you find yourself lingering outside the lecture hall for way longer than any sane person should.

That's what bothers you the most about this whole thing with Jimin. He's stolen your sense. How on earth did you let a stupid crush, on a boy you hardly know, get between you and your grades? You tell yourself no more as you suck in a deep breath and steel yourself to march right through the door. You're not going to let Park Jimin and his cruelty stand between you and your credits.

With your resolve solid and your head held high, you push yourself forward. You don't even spare a glance in his general direction as you pass, although it would be a lie to say you didn't clock him in your peripheral. Tae sits down next to you a moment later and you thank your lucky stars you have a friend here to make you look busy.

"Ready to make this exam your bitch?" he asks, making finger guns at you and clicking his tongue.

"That remains to be seen," you say, turning toward him in your seat so that Jimin is behind you. "I couldn't get anything done this weekend," you confess. "I thought I was more prepared than I am so it really just depends on what's on the exam."

"Aw fuck, you could have called me," he says, passing you his note cards. "We could have studied together."

"Oh, Tae," you sigh, pushing his hand back and refusing his offer of notes. "You should use this time for yourself. It wouldn't be fair of me to take it from you."

"We've got ten minutes." He points to the clock at the front of the lecture hall. "Quiz me. It will help us both."

Ten minutes fly by as you do your absolute best to retain any of the information in Taehyung's carefully written cards. You take one last glance at it before someone slips it from your hand and replaces it with a test. You know it's Jimin.

Only when you look up and level him with a glare does it seem to register on his face that you're angry. Realization dawns on him as you snatch the test and lean over it on your desk.

"Y/n, I'm so sorry," he quietly whispers, but he's moving on already. The exam is about to begin. He doesn't have time to explain himself right now. He knows what it looks like. He led you on and stood you up without so much as a text message. He should have asked Tae to tell you what happened, but the truth is that he forgot about you entirely and he knows that is the cruelest thing he could possibly confess.

Nearly an hour later you set your pencil down and run your fingers through your hair. Did any of those answers make sense? Your only possible saving grace is bullshitting your way through the open responses. Maybe you’ll earn some partial credit at the very least.

You swallow the petty words threatening to spill from your tongue as you gather your things and approach Jimin’s desk with your test in hand. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the anxious glances he threw your way. You swore every time you looked up he was looking at you, so you’d squint like you were checking the time, like you had somewhere more important to be than taking an exam for a core requirement course.

As you slap the packet of your evident failure down on his desk, you don your best apathetic expression. You look down at him and allow a sliver of eye contact, just enough to send the message that you don’t care anymore. You try to look bored. He doesn’t deserve to see how he’s hurt you or angered you. He’s nothing to you. You’re nothing to him, but you’re not beneath him. He’s beneath you. You don’t just look at him; you look through him.

He blinks a few times and a chill runs down his spine. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words won’t form.

“Don’t bother. I don’t care,” you whisper with a roll of your eyes.

You make sure to straighten your shoulders and keep your chin up as you turn on your heel and leave. You bombed that exam and you know it, thanks to your stupid feelings, but at the very least you achieved the victory of shaking Park Jimin to his core. So why do you feel like you’re about to sob in the bathroom down the hall?

Oh. Because you are. You spend at least five minutes composing yourself and washing your face before your phone buzzes with a much needed distraction.

[NEW MESSAGE] Tae: hungry?

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Jimin’s leg bounces uncontrollably under his desk while he waits for the remaining students to finish their exams so he can go after you. He wracks his brain for ways to clear the nervous tension dwelling within but it’s no use. Confrontation makes him so uncomfortable. Still, he can’t have you thinking he’s a total douche. He should text you. Fuck, he should call you. And he would, if he had a working phone. The second the last student drops their exam on his desk he’s going to find you and apologize.

He knows his reputation precedes him. He knows exactly what this looks like. You probably think he blew you off to get some or just led you on entirely, but he really did mean to meet up with you. He needs to clear the air. Maybe he’s a little loose with his morals at times, but he’s never an asshole on purpose. He prides himself on being a beacon of positivity and an example on how to make people feel good even if it’s only to make them feel good. He barely knows you, but it bothers him to think that you’re out there thinking he’s a heartless jerk and that he hurt your feelings on purpose.

It’s a big campus and Jimin spends the better half of an hour searching it before he finds you in the cafeteria with Taehyung. You look awfully close, and he almost feels bad interrupting you, but he owes you an explanation. It’s a mystery to him why on earth you would seek out his company when Taehyung seems all too willing to be what you need.

Taehyung notices him before you do. He shakes his head at Jimin disapprovingly. “Cold, man. So cold.”

Jimin nods, hanging his head. He’s well aware. You haven’t turned around yet and don’t intend to. If Jimin can ignore you then you can ignore him too. Besides, if you turn to face him, he might notice your watery, puffy eyes. How incredibly foolish that would be to admit that you’ve been crying about being stood up by someone you’ve barely even spoken to.

“Y/n?” Jimin’s soft voice calls to you, melodic and soothing as ever. “Can I have a minute?”

Taehyung looks between the two of you while he moves a french fry into his mouth at a snail’s pace and slowly chews as if this is free entertainment.

“No,” you answer.

“I’m sorry about Saturday,” he tells you, progressing despite your refusal to listen. He plants his hands on the table beside you and leans in to try to steal a glance at your profile, but you turn your head away.

“Jungkook pushed me in the pool right after this asshole,” he says, pointing at Taehyung. “My phone was in my pocket. It’s ruined.”

“Hey,” Taehyung interrupts, his mouth open in protest and full of half-chewed fries. “Don’t pin this on me. You could have asked any one of us to let her know what happened. You never even mentioned it. Why don’t you just admit that you forgot?” Taehyung suggests, jamming another french fry into his little paper cup of ketchup before cramming it into his mouth.

Jimin fumes for a moment, glaring at Tae before he pulls out the chair next to you and spins it around. He straddles it and rests his chin on the backrest. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I forgot. I swear I never would have done something like that to you on purpose. My phone getting ruined messed up a lot of things, but if you give me another chance, I’d love to prove that I’m not the horrible person you think I am.”

Silence. You glance over at Taehyung, willing him to speak up and either back Jimin up or get you out of this. You’re ready to forgive Jimin already and leave with him right now and it’s not lost on you how bad that looks. It’s so easy for Jimin to have you wrapped around his fingers. You wish he was ugly. You wish you never signed up for this stupid class. You wish you could feel for Tae the way you feel for Jimin so that you could just leave with him instead. You’re about ready to anyway when he finally opens his mouth again.

“I think you should take her out to eat. Eating out is the perfect way to apologize, don’t you think?” Tae’s grin is so wide it makes his eyes crinkle.

You huff out a humorless laugh. If that’s what you wanted you’d stick with the original plan and be in the backseat of Taehyung’s car again in the next twenty minutes. Against your better judgement, you turn to look at Jimin, puffy eyes and runny nose no longer hidden. He’s a little taken back by your expression. He smiles at you softly and reaches out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You practically melt into his touch.

“Mmm, I would like something sweet.” Jimin licks his lips. “How about ice cream?”

“When?” you ask, embarrassed by the way your voice cracks and by how easily you’re giving in.

“Now?”

“Well, look at the time,” Tae says, standing with his tray and messenger bag. “I’ve got to go wash my hair but you two have fun on your date. Use protection!” he calls behind him on his way toward the exit.

You’d be irritated by his blunt suggestion if his statement didn’t swirl a storm of butterflies deep in your gut. You’re so distracted by them that you don’t realize that you’re still gaping at Jimin in disbelief.

“So?” Jimin wonders, holding out his hand.

“I don’t forgive you,” you insist while taking it into yours. Although it’s probably a lie, he doesn’t call you on it. He simply smiles and gives your hand a tiny comforting squeeze.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

“My car is on the other side of campus,” you tell him once you’ve stepped outside. “Where are you parked?”

“Oh, um,” he stalls. “I thought it might be nice to walk, give us more time to talk. Is that okay?”

“Isn’t it kind of far?” you ask, assuming he's taking you to that chain ice cream shoppe a few miles off campus.

"No, this place is close. It's a secret. Not many people know about it," he says with a wink.

"You say that to everyone don't you?" You narrow your eyes at him, moving out of reach when he tries to put his arm around you.

"No," he laughs. "I've been here with other people, though. I was here with Jin last week." He smiles, leading the way toward a small alley between buildings.

You follow him easily, questioning again why you have so little self preservation when it comes to him. At the other end of the alley you can see what looks like a park. Green trees line the sidewalk up ahead, creating a canopy against the brilliant sun. The walk to this mysterious ice cream place is shaded and chilly. Jimin slips his jacket off and slings it over your shoulders when he notices you rubbing at your arms.

"Almost there," he promises. In the distance, framed by two towering oaks, is a tiny little ice cream place. It looks like a mirage, something out of a board game or a fairy tale. The closer you get, the more real it becomes. The siding is faded, the roof looks like it's in dire need of repairs, and the hand-painted sign reading The Cheery Cherry has seen better days. It's clean though, sparkling in all the places that matter.

There is a stout old man behind the window with a shining silver ice cream scoop ready and waiting in his hand. Jimin greets him by name and asks for a simple vanilla cone. You're tempted to judge him, he doesn't strike you as the vanilla type, but there must be a reason. Maybe this is the best vanilla ice cream on earth. You order the same just in case, taking your first taste as Jimin pulls a few bills from his wallet and hands them over with a shaky hand.

To your dismay the ice cream is not extraordinary; it's just plain vanilla. You could probably get the same exact type from any grocery store. You should have gone with something else. You should have at least gotten the cheery cherry cone. That might have been a flavor worth tasting. Why was he so bent on coming here for such a bland ice cream?

You suppose you should be thankful for the gesture but you still feel uneasy, like he’s playing you somehow. It almost feels like he’s doing it out of obligation rather than desire. Is he doing the bare minimum because he doesn’t feel like you’re worth more than this? Your company must be the equivalent to a plain vanilla cone. Mediocre. Unremarkable. Ordinary.

Forgettable.

Jimin turns back to you with his ice cream in one hand and change filling the other. "Is it good?"

"It's vanilla." You shrug.

"Do you want something different?" he asks, counting the money in his hand.

"No, I like vanilla."

"Figures," he teases.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you snap back at him.

"Nothing, sweetheart. I just think you're soft, sweet. Vanilla suits you."

"I am not vanilla. I do all kinds of freaky shit," you argue, realizing too late that you've over shared in your annoyance.

Jimin looks you over with a smirk, bringing his ice cream to his lips and dragging his tongue around the edge of the cone where it's dripping. "Noted," he says.

"I didn't mean-- I wasn't -- UGH," you huff, embarrassed that he's still making a fool of you from the doghouse. You need to change the subject fast. "What'syourmajor?" You rush the question past your lips and he laughs at your flustered state, waiting for you to slow down and ask him in words he can understand.

"Your major?" you repeat, slower this time.

"Oh, uh. Urban studies."

"Interesting."

"You don't know what that means, huh?" He nudges you with his elbow, falling in stride beside you. Unfortunately, you had just brought your ice cream up to your mouth and his nudging caused you to smear it across your cheek.

You look at him angrily. First he stood you up, forgot about you, then he had the nerve to show up to class today looking like a fucking angel, takes you for ice cream to make it up to you, and now he's teasing you and making you look every bit the fool you feel like you are. Tears well in your eyes when he laughs at the mess he caused.

"I'm sorry," he says through his giggling. He reaches out to gently wipe your cheek with his thumb which he promptly pops in his mouth and sucks clean after. "What's wrong?"

You swipe at your eyes, ridding them of the tears that were about to spill out as your shame bubbles over. "You make me feel stupid," you confess. "You're wasting my time."

Shoving his jacket back at him, you take off in the direction you came, throwing your stupid vanilla cone in the closest trash can and kicking yourself for not leaving with Taehyung instead. Jimin winces at the action, looking like you’ve discarded a precious keepsake rather than a plain, boring vanilla cone.

"Y/n, wait!" he calls, catching up to you with ease. He takes you by the wrist and spins you back to face him. "I don't think you're stupid at all. I’m sorry I’m so bad at this.” He sighs, softening his hold on you. “I didn’t know what to think about you when you approached me at first, you know? Girls throw themselves at me all the time.”

You grimace at his words and roll your eyes, snatching your wrist back with a scowl. Of course he thinks you were throwing yourself at him, but you’re sure that you weren’t. You were just being direct about your feelings. Do you really come across as such a desperate person? Maybe you should ask Yoongi for his opinion later.

“But I definitely didn’t mean to stand you up and I don’t mean to make you feel stupid at all. I think you're pretty smart, you’re cute and you’re actually bolder than I initially thought. I'd love to get to know you better. I know I'm not doing so great so far, but I can be better. Please, sit with me?" he asks, walking to a nearby park bench.

Reluctantly, you follow, although you make a point to drag your feet the whole way there. When you sit down beside him, he loops an arm around your waist and draws you closer, offering his ice cream up to you once your legs brush against his. You reach for it but he pulls it away.

"Hey," he jokes. "Just lick it. I didn't make you throw yours away."

You shake your head and lean forward to drag your tongue over what's left of his vanilla cone.

"Forgive me?" he asks. His toothy smile catches the sunlight and it genuinely hurts your eyes to keep looking.

"Okay. One more chance," you agree. "So, urban studies?"

He relaxes back against the bench, taking another lick before he offers the cone to you again. "Yeah, it's like community development and stuff. What about you, princess? What are you studying?"

You flush at the nickname, heat rising in your face and other places you'd rather not acknowledge. You're oblivious to the fact that you're having a similar effect on Jimin. The way you're licking his ice cream is making his pants feel a little tight.

"Teaching," you tell him, picking at the peeling paint on the bench.

"Little kids?"

"Yeah." You take another lick of his ice cream while he holds it, looking up halfway through.

Jimin's expression is unreadable, stunned almost. He shifts a little, crosses his legs, clears his throat.

"Kids are fun. I have a younger brother," he tells you.

"A lot younger?"

"No," he laughs. "But he's a total baby so it's basically the same.”

“Oh, does he get that from you?” you tease with a giggle.

His mouth drops open in surprise. “Hey,” he pouts. “That’s not nice.”

“I never said I was nice,” you tell him, taking another slow lick of his ice cream.

“Clearly,” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes. He drags his lip through his teeth to try to hide the smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

You manage to cram so much conversation into the next twenty minutes on this park bench, learning more about the mysterious campus celebrity than you ever thought you’d know. You hope his interest wasn't feigned, because it felt so fucking good to have his attention, to have him really listen to you and ask you about your life and your family and your hopes for the future. If you're not mistaken, you might think this was real progress.

Jimin watches you walk back toward campus with a soft smile and an unfamiliar feeling brewing inside him. You've surprised him. You're not the naive infatuated little girl he took you for. If he had a phone he'd be texting you already. He'd call you tonight, and maybe tomorrow. It's alarming to him how badly he wants another ten minutes with you. He hates that you declined his offer to walk you to your next class, but damn does he ever appreciate the view.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Thursday comes quickly. After your initial ice cream date, Jimin has found himself curiously seeking your attention rather than the other way around. With his phone out of commission he was hanging around the cafeteria all day yesterday in hopes of catching you. While it’s clear you don’t trust him and you haven’t forgiven him, you seem to have softened up a bit. You spent your meals together and allowed him to walk you to your classes, all while exchanging playful jabs at each other. You might forgive him for bailing if yesterday stood alone. Today is a whole different story.

Now Jimin is staring down a stack of graded exams the professor has dropped on the table at the front of the room. Students haven’t begun to trickle in yet so when the professor takes the opportunity to excuse himself, Jimin wastes no time in flipping through the pile to get a sense of the overall success of the class. When he gets to a test marked in thick red marker with an ‘F’ his stomach drops. He knows it’s yours before he even reads the name. He was hoping maybe you’d been lying about not paying attention.

He shuffles the exam back into place and straightens the pile just as the earliest student walks in. Jimin offers her a wan smile and a tiny bow of his head as a greeting. Although his stomach is still sinking and churning, he’s already thinking about ways he might be able to make it up to you.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin finds you in the cafeteria with Taehyung again, where he has you distracted from your misery by folding and unfolding a cootie catcher in front of your face like you're in third grade and not your third year of college.

"Pick a color now, y/n," Tae urges, opening and closing the folded paper four times after you've indicated the triangle marked 'pink.' "Hmm," he ponders. "It says you need to relax."

"What is this, a fortune cookie? I thought these things were like truth or dare, or like... who I was gonna marry," you complain, flicking the craft from his hands.

Jimin picks the paper up off the floor and hands it back to Taehyung. "Do me," he says.

After a moment of pointing and folding, Tae announces, "It says you need to apologize. Again."

Jimin looks at you while Tae packs up his stuff. After dropping a kiss on the top of your head he leaves for his next class. The action makes Jimin furrow his brows and frown. A feeling too uncomfortably close to jealousy blooms in his chest. Why did that bother him so much? He's not ready to acknowledge the answer to that. Instead, he contradicts it by reminding himself that Tae is one of his closest friends and it's cool that the two of you are getting close too.

"Princess?" Jimin's song-like voice drifts to your ears once Tae has disappeared. You've pressed your face into your folded arms on the table and it's taking everything you have not to start crying about your failed exam again. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, laying his hand against the small of your back and beginning to rub soft circles there. "I'm sorry I didn't help you."

"I wish you were ugly," you mumble into your arms.

"What?" he laughs, leaning his face down next to yours.

You lift your head to meet his eyes. "If you were ugly this never would have happened," you insist, sitting up and shaking his hand off your back with a twist of your spine. "Just be ugly! FUCK."

Jimin smiles before screwing his face up into the most unrecognizable grimace he can manage. He holds it until you start to smile then switches to another terrible expression, with his chin tucked into his neck so that it morphs into several chins and crosses his eyes for extra emphasis on its ridiculousness. When you start to laugh he sticks out his tongue to make it worse.

Once you’re clutching your stomach and doubled over with pealing laughter, he gives you the beautiful smile you're so used to again. "Let's do something fun together," he offers. "And then after that, we'll get studying and make this right. Please let me make it up to you."

"Okay," you agree, leaning into his open arms. It only took a couple days of spending time together to remove the awkwardness you felt when he touched you. He's even held your hand a few times while you walked together after your other classes. Now, his embrace feels welcome and comforting. You still can’t tell if he’s just trying to be nice or if he actually likes doing it but you don’t mind at all.

"There's a party on Saturday, will you come with me?"

"Where?" you ask, as if you have any hope of refusing him at all. You'd go anywhere with him and you know it but you want to try to play it cool. Your tone seems more tepid than you anticipate but he doesn’t seem to call you out on it.

"Jin's," he tells you, reaching for your hand and lacing your fingers together.

He rubs his thumb against the back of your hand while he waits for you to pretend to decide. You relish in the motion. The tingle of butterflies erupt in your belly again like a cannon aimed at your heart, ready to sink it in an instant. Instead of falling, your heart seems to fly up to your brain and a light giggle escapes your lips.

"Okay. I'll come," you say in a euphoric brain fog, looking down at your joined hands. It's scary how good it feels to have his attention like this, but you hope it doesn’t stop.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

"Why are you home?" Yoongi asks, finding you on the couch when he emerges from his bedroom. His late afternoon nap went longer than expected, leaving you believing he was out for the night. You settled in with Netflix and snacks of your own. He flops down next to you, causing you to swing your feet off the couch before they get squashed beneath his butt. He yawns and lets his head dip forward as he pulls out his phone and begins flipping through it.

"It's Friday night,” he reminds you, his tone scratchy. It makes you giggle.

"I didn't wanna go out alone and I thought you were gone. You're gonna be up all night now, you know."

"I would have stayed asleep but I've got a friend in need," he mumbles, rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes.

"Aww, you're so good to me." You beam, snuggling up to him and wrapping him up in a tight hug.

"Not you," he huffs with a disgusted grimace. “Ugh, that’s enough touching.”

You immediately pull back and scoff. “Wow. You’re lucky I know you know you love me.”

He rolls his eyes. "That’s debatable.”

“Yeah, okay,” you mock him in a tone of disbelief. You pop a chip into your mouth. “So why are you really up— if not to support your wonderful, beautiful, perfectly sculpted local couch potato?”

He smiles and steals the next chip from your hand before you can shove it into your mouth. “If you're good with it, my friend is gonna crash on our couch for a few days. His parents cut him off and he’s got nowhere to go. He’s almost got enough saved up to get his own place, but he could use some help in the meantime. Figured we’re doing alright and we have a couch. You cool with that?"

"Sure," you agree, trusting Yoongi's judgment. He's not gonna let some crazy person stay on your couch. "When?"

"I was just waiting for your approval but I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to you before I passed out. I'll go pick him up now, if that's good with you," he says slipping his feet into a pair of sandals and looking for his keys.

"What, he doesn't have a car?"

"Sold it to pay for his books this semester. He's got nothing. He's keeping all his clothes in another friend's closet. It's kinda sad."

"That's rough," you agree, blowing out a heavy exhale and turning your attention back to the TV.

"I'll be back in a few. Maybe take it to your room so he can have the couch?" Yoongi suggests.

"Sure, sure," you say, already sucked back into your show and forgetting entirely about Yoongi and his friend for now.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

When Yoongi returns an hour later, you haven't moved. In fact, you’ve crashed… hard. Yoongi and his mystery guest enter to a chorus of your snores and the Friends theme song.

“Hey, get up,” Yoongi urges, nudging your shoulder lightly.

When you peel your eyes open to look at him, you’re utterly mystified to see the object of your affections a few feet behind him, standing awkwardly in your kitchen with a duffle slung over his shoulder.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you blink a few times to clear your vision. You want to be sure it's him before you open your mouth. He's there, in black sweats with a grey hoodie pulled up over his white baseball cap. “Jimin?”

“Oh good you know him," Yoongi says with relief coating his tone. "I’m gonna get him some blankets. Think you can take your Netflix marathon to your room?”

"Yeah, I can do that," you mumble, gathering up your mess and disappearing into your room without another word.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Alone in your room, you conjure up a hundred reasons in your anxious mind that could explain why Jimin thought he had to keep this huge secret from you. He’s got nothing? Maybe he was afraid you'd tell people. Suddenly, it makes so much sense why he's always walking everywhere.

You think back to Tuesday at the Cheery Cherry. His usually steady hands were so shaky handing over those bills he pulled from his wallet. You think of how tightly he clutched his change and even counted it out afterward. If you hadn’t been so preoccupied with your own thoughts of inadequacy, you might have been able to put it together on your own. Your stomach drops when you recall the insulting way you threw your vanilla cone in the trash. The scene replays over and over again until you’re crying into your pillow.

Guilt keeps you awake until well past midnight as you turn these unsavory ideas over and over in your head, looking at them from every possible angle and over analyzing every detail of the time you've spent together thus far. Your eyes are now wide and dry, fixed on a black spot on your ceiling that you're hoping is just a speck and not a spider. The quilt in your hands is frayed, giving your nervous hands something to pick at while you let the silence drive you mad.

The soft knock on your door at half past one is a relief. Yoongi does his best cooking at odd hours, usually bringing you a plate if you're awake. It's a surprise to find Jimin outside your door instead. He awkwardly shifts from foot to foot until he finds your eyes in the dim glow of your table lamp.

"Did I wake you?" he whispers, head leaning against your door frame.

You shake your head, looking down at your skimpy sleep shorts and the university hoodie you pulled on to open the door. “I was up.”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” you answer, stepping aside so he can come in. Your eyes scan the room nervously, checking for underwear on the floor and counting the half empty glasses of water on your nightstand. If you knew Jimin was going to be in your bedroom tonight, you would have cleaned up. At least you didn’t leave your vibrator out in the open. You don’t think you’d recover from the embarrassment of that.

Jimin follows you to your bed, perching on the edge once you’ve settled back against your pillows.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t,” you respond immediately. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Then why did you run away?” he asks, pulling at his hoodie strings.

“I wanted to give you space. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You didn’t tell me what you were going through and I didn’t want to…” you trail off, unsure how to articulate just why you ran away.

“You didn’t want to embarrass me? Hurt my pride?” he asks, sarcasm evident.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We aren’t that close.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispers. “I want to explain. I want to be that close to you.” He leans towards you, resting on his hands. He looks confident despite his current situation and it worries you a little. How can he be so sure of himself when he’s crashing on your couch and apologizing to you again for the fourth time in less than a week?

The Jimin you’ve gotten to know recently seems to disappear, leaving on the smooth talking playboy in his wake. He seems too calculated to be genuine. The words he whispers don’t seem like words meant for you. He is him, after all, and money or not he’s still the greatest catch on campus. And you, much to your dismay, are still just you. Unassuming, uninteresting, unexciting you. You’re the plain vanilla cone he’d never ask for if he had the means to get the banana split.

“Why?” you skeptically ask, pulling your knees up to your chest.

Jimin bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth while he thinks. “You’re special,” he says. “You’re cute and funny and I like spending time with you. You make me feel like I can be myself with you.”

“But you don’t trust me?” you ask, obviously referring to the elephant in the room. He didn’t tell you he was essentially homeless. How much of himself can he truly be if he was keeping that from you?

“I didn’t want to scare you away, and most girls I… see, don’t get close enough to find out,” he confesses. “I can’t afford to take anyone out right now. I haven’t been able to for a while. But I’m so close to getting enough for an apartment. That’s why I took the TA job; at the end of the semester I should be ready.”

“Jimin,” you start, unsure what to say. You’re still thinking about that goddamned three dollar ice cream cone you threw away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you, standing up. “I just wanted to be real with you, and thank you for agreeing to let me have the couch for a few days. I’ll let you sleep.”

“Wait!”

As you scramble over yourself to reach out, you find yourself on your knees awkwardly clutching your hand towards your chest. You’re still worried about seeming desperate but you can’t let that stop you now. Jimin turns toward you, but you’re unsure of what you wanted to say. You only know that you want to be closer to him too, that you’re not ready for him to go, that if he leaves now you’ll lie awake for the rest of the night reliving this short conversation.

“Stay,” you plead, nervously twirling the string of your hoodie around your fingers as you sit back against the pillows. “Talk to me?”

“Aren’t you tired?” he wonders.

You hold out your hand and he crosses the room to take it, standing next to your bed. You pat the space next to you and tug him toward it. “Wide awake.”

Your yawn says otherwise.

Jimin smiles, climbing over you to lay by your side on top of your blankets. He looks at you expectantly once he’s settled but it’s too much pressure for you to lead the conversation. You only know that you want to keep hearing his soothing voice. You have no idea what you wanted to say.

“You look cute,” he says, breaking the silence and touching your nose with the tip of his finger. “Sleepy and soft.”

“You look sexy,” you complain, waving his hand away. “I kinda wanna punch you for it.”

He throws his head back in laughter. “So feisty.”

“I can be boring instead,” you jokingly offer, rolling on your side to face him.

He does his best to keep his eyes trained on your face, despite the fact that all he wants to do is let them wander down. “I just want you to be you.”

That sounds fake. Again, you battle against the idea that this is all a farce, some sneaky way to get into your pants once and leave you wanting for the rest of your life. He hasn’t bared himself to you enough for you to trust him, so you pry.

“Why’d your parents cut you off, Jimin?” you ask.

He looks at you for a second, stunned at your boldness. That’s definitely not where he thought this conversation was going. He takes a moment to prepare his response and sighs.

“They have this restaurant. It’s a small place right off the coast: Jeongsik. My great grandparents started it from nothing and now my parents manage it. They want me to take over since I’m the eldest, but I want to move to the city and have my own life. I don’t want to work in their restaurant forever and my brother loves it and is perfectly capable. They love me. I know they’re just trying to teach me a lesson,” he tells you. He sounds unsure of that last bit. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that he’s got nowhere to live and he’s penny pinching for meals and they’re shunning him.

“And what is that lesson, Jimin?” you ask, trying to dig deeper before he slips back into playboy mode.

“That being a part of Jeongsik is my only option if I want to be successful. That I can’t make it without them.”

“Can you?” The question is quiet and unassuming. You only want to know how bad it really is.

He takes a deep breath and taps his fingers anxiously against the fabric of the pillow. “I can. It won’t be the same, it won’t be easy, but I can.”

After giving Jimin a moment to say more, which he doesn’t take, you push him further. With your heart on the line and this miracle of an opportunity with him in your room, you're determined to learn as much as you can. You need to get under his skin. You need to know him, so you can know if you should run.

"What's your plan then?" you question, shifting closer so you're face to face against the pillows.

Jimin smirks at your line of questioning. It seems to break him from his thoughts. “Well,” he begins. “The Village has some one bedrooms opening up at the end of the semester, and by then I’ll be ready to make a deposit and lease one. After that I’ve got one semester left until I graduate. Then I’ll move to the city and live my life how I want.”

“Won’t you miss your family?”

“They still talk to me. They’re just not paying for school. Or my car. Or my food.” His heavy sigh at the end contradicts the lightness with which he revealed all of this to you.

“I’m sorry, Jimin.” You reach for his hand, familiarity in the way it fits with yours.

“It’s okay. I have good friends, and I have…” he trails off, catching himself and looking away with an awkward huff of a laugh.

“What?” you wonder, heart fluttering at the possibility that he was about to say ‘you.’ “What else do you have?”

Jimin looks up at you, rising up on his elbow. His eyes search your face for any hint of rejection. When he finds only hope, his hand moves to cup your cheek. It’s warm, adorned with rings that contrast the temperature of his skin.

“You,” he breathes, moving closer. You watch his gaze dart down to your lips before your own eyelids flutter closed. “I was going to say you,” he confesses before he closes the space between you and lays a soft kiss against your waiting lips.

He pulls away way too fast, leaving you to panic in the aftermath. You thought you had feelings for him before, but now that he’s let you in, now that he has shown you his heart, there is nothing more to deny. You’ve fallen, hard. The realization makes you feel trapped, like a frantic dying bird in a cage. But your captor is kind and beautiful and the flavor he left on your lips is the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Then say it,” you prompt him, urging him to accept the affection you’ve been so desperate to give him.

He kisses you again in lieu of words, longer, deeper, until his tongue is dragging over yours. You fist the material of his hoodie in your hands, pulling him towards you while you turn on your back. He’s hesitant to get on top of you, afraid he might be taking it too far, but you’re insistent. You pull and he caves willingly, slotting a leg between yours and letting his hand drift from your cheek to the back of your neck.

“I like you,” he pants when he breaks away. It feels like your heart flies up out of your chest and does a lap around the room, flapping its hummingbird wings like the wild thing it is before it crashes back into its place.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you plead. “You don’t have to pretend just because you’re here now. I’m a big girl. We can just have tonight.”

You say the words but you know if he leaves tomorrow, you’ll cry all day and probably the day after that too. The truth is, you can talk all you want about how you can do this no strings attached, but you know you can’t. Your strings are so attached to him at this point you might as well be metaphorical shibari.

“I mean it,” he whispers, full, wet lips brushing the side of your neck.

You freeze. You were expecting him to drop the charade and just fuck you or something, but in this moment he exudes tenderness and consideration.

“And because I like you, I think I should go back to the couch before we do something we aren’t ready to do.”

“Stay,” you plead. “We don’t have to do anything, just lay with me.”

He slowly nods and reaches over you to turn off the lamp, planting a soft kiss on your cheek as he settles back into place. You wiggle your form down into the covers and he smoothes the hair from your face before tracing his fingers down your arm. You lean in close enough to smell the subtle clean scent of his cologne. Is it cologne? You doubt it knowing what you know now, unless he’s borrowing it from someone else. You still find yourself enjoying it nonetheless. It’s comforting. Sleep begins to claim you just as he slips his fingers into yours and gives you a tiny squeeze.

“Goodnight y/n.”

You think you respond but you’re in that purgatory state between sleeping and being awake, so you can’t be sure. At least you’re eighty percent sure you gave him a squeeze in return.

That’s how Yoongi finds you in the morning: you tucked neatly into your comforter and Jimin laying on top of it beside you, your hands clasped together in the middle.

“UM!” Yoongi shouts from the doorway, loud enough to wake you both.

Startled, you sit up in bed and look around for the source of the shout. “Fuck! Yoon. You didn’t need to scream.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to keep this from Taehyung,” Yoongi chides, looking from you to Jimin and back. “That would be quite the moral conundrum.”

“For fuck’s sake. It was never Tae. I am not seeing Tae. We are JUST FRIENDS!” You yell the last two words and chuck your pillow at him for emphasis.

“Okay cool, then Jimin can explain to him whatever this is to him. Jimin, he wants you to call him. My phone’s on the table. I’m taking a shower.”

Yoongi disappears from the doorway and an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. In the light of day, you feel nervous and uncertain. Jimin does nothing to ease your anxiety. He just lays there quietly, unsure what to say.

“Do you want breakfast?” You try to smile and sound as chipper as possible.

He sits up finally and turns his back to you. “I should go see Taehyung.”

He moves toward the door and you feel your chest tighten. “Jimin?”

He turns to you from the hallway, and taking in your confused expression, offers you a smile. “We’re good, princess. I’ll be back tonight, then me and you: party time.” He winks before moving out of sight.

Alone once again, you start to question things. Everything. Are you imagining things or did Jimin seem cold when he left? He kissed you last night, didn’t he? Was everything you talked about too much? Does he regret kissing you? Does he regret staying the night with you without getting anything out of it? You can feel your thoughts spiraling out of control, but you can’t stop yourself from putting up the walls you so desperately wanted to keep down forever last night. It obviously didn’t mean anything to him, despite his claim that he likes you. He probably just meant that he’d like to fool around with you. Like he does with everyone else. You can’t let one night beside him make you think you’re special to him, no matter how badly you want to be.

Knowing you won’t make it through the day without driving yourself completely mad with questions and doubts, you dig your old phone and charger out of a drawer and go after Jimin. He’s leaning over the kitchen counter staring down at Yoongi’s phone when you steal his attention.

“Please take this,” you plead, thrusting the phone and charger towards him.

He looks from the device to you and blinks a few times in surprise. “What?”

“It’s a little old, but if your sim card didn’t get damaged I’m sure it will work in this. I kept putting off bringing it to be recycled.” You laugh nervously as you try to place it in his hand. “But now I’m glad I didn’t. Take it.”

“I can’t accept this, princess. It’s too much,” Jimin says, staring down at the object in your hands.

“Take it for me. If I have to go another day without being able to send you memes I’ll die.”

“Memes?” he repeats, sounding baffled.

“Memes, nudes, the weather forecast. Who cares? I wanna text you. Please take it.”

He licks his lips and smirks at your joke. Was it a joke? It’s hard to tell. He accepts it anyway. “Thank you. I’ll call you later?”

“You’d better,” you tease, offering the grandest smile you can manage before retreating with a slow saunter back to your room.

There’s that view again. He could watch your ass sway in those teeny shorts all day. It takes every last ounce of self control he possesses to pick up Yoongi’s phone and dial Tae rather than sprint back into your room and pin you to the bed. It doesn’t stop him from daydreaming about it though, even as his friend answers.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

“What are we doing?” Jimin stands in the sprawling living room of Taehyung and Jungkook’s shared apartment. Both are from wealthy families that are all too ready to give their sons everything that matches the silver spoons in their mouths. They’ve been blessed with a bachelor pad that looks more like a college movie set than anything normal one would find around campus.

“Pick up a controller,” Tae tells Jimin, completely absorbed in the race on their oversized flat screen TV.

Jungkook hasn’t even acknowledged Jimin’s presence yet. Focused doesn’t even begin to describe the way his eyes bore into the television. He doesn’t break from his trance until he wins. Only then does he sit back with a smug grin, dropping the controller in his lap and just barely resisting the urge to gloat.

Taehyung drops his controller too, turning to give Jungkook a congratulatory fist bump. “Take his place,” he says to Jimin.

Jungkook has already vacated his place on the hallowed futon and moved to the row of cup noodles sitting on the counter. The first cup is half empty before Jimin even sits down.

“I suck at these games, Tae,” Jimin grumbles.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be good. It’s a ploy to get you relaxed enough to talk about y/n.” Taehyung smiles, knowing Jimin can’t refuse now that he’s cornered.

“What about her?” He feigns nonchalance, as if he didn’t just spend last night catching feelings along with your lips between his own.

Taehyung scoffs, half bewildered, half disgusted. “Come on, Jimin. She’s amazing. You like her.”

“I barely know her,” Jimin replies. It’s a lie he can taste like copper on his tongue. He knows your favorite food, where you grew up, what you study, and he’s already programmed your birthday into his borrowed phone so he won’t forget.

Taehyung clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Okay then. If you don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna shoot my shot. She’s funny, and nice, and her pussy is so bomb it makes me wanna get married, so if you’re not gonna do something about that then I will.”

Jungkook cackles from the kitchen. “Did you fuck Jimin’s girl?”

“She’s not my girl,” Jimin grumbles, staring daggers at Jungkook, just as Taehyung says that he did not.

Jungkook takes his armload of cup noodles into his bedroom.

“I know you like her,” Tae prods. “She’s not some materialistic bitch who’s gonna leave you if you can’t afford lavish dates every other day. She’s a good, genuine person. She just wants your time and your attention. Maybe your heart. She doesn’t care about the other stuff.”

“Yeah? So I can bring her back to this futon after I buy her dinner from the dollar menu?” Jimin’s nose starts to tingle, months worth of frustrations finally reaching a breaking point. “I can’t get in a relationship right now and you know she’s not a fuckbuddy kind of girl.

“Right, because I didn’t eat her out in my car for fun last week.” He’d date you in a heartbeat if you wanted him. But he knows it’s Jimin you want and he’s more than happy to push the two of you together to see you both happy. He values friendship above all things.

“If that’s all you want from her, fine. But I think you and I both know it’s not and she’s too good for you to string along. If you’re just gonna break her heart, do it now before she falls any harder for you.”

“Why, so you can swoop in and be the good guy again? So you can get her off in your backseat?” The words are venom dripping from his mouth.

“Bro.”

Jimin softens. Tae is his dearest friend. He knows he only has his best interests at heart.

“I’m sorry.” He pauses and sighs. “We talked about Jeongsik last night. She knows my parents cut me off.”

Taehyung grimaces. “How’d that go?”

“Now she knows I’m not good enough but it didn’t seem to deter her at all.”

“‘Cause you are good enough and now she can see your true worth as a person, which is a thousand times better than the fake worth of money.”

Jimin seems to consider this for a moment but then expresses the concern gnawing at his insides. “What if she really is just another person who wants to idolize me? I’m really into her, but I need it to be more than that.”

“Jimin—”

“What if she’s after the meaningless title of being Park Jimin’s girl... like every other girl that has pursued me lately?” The words make him cringe. He’s humble and kind, not one to throw bouquets at himself, but those thoughts are intrusive and hard to ignore.

“Tch. Do you know her at all? Do you really think that matters to her?”

“No,” Jimin sighs. “But what if?”

“She admires you. You like her. Stop making it so complicated and let go of those ifs. You’ll never know if you don’t try and I want to see you try because you deserve to be happy,” Tae insists, starting a new game. “Now pick up that controller. I wanna kick your ass.”

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

You’ve spent the better part of your Saturday afternoon picking out your outfit for tonight. Yoongi only teased you twice before helping you select something a little bit more slutty than you’d normally pull out for a date. You’re going to a party after all, not some Sunday brunch with your friends.

When it’s almost time for you to meet up with Jimin you find yourself growing increasingly nervous. You run your hand over your thigh and down your calf, testing for any stubble you might have missed in your meticulous hour-long shaving session. On your way back up you tug on your skirt, eyeing it as though your gaze can simply increase its length. When was the last time you wore this dress?

You adjust and fuss over the way your tits fit inside the garment and puff air out of your cheeks. Yoongi squints at you from across the room. Your door is wide open after all.

“Stop worrying so much.” He sighs and clicks his tongue, crossing the room until he can see you in perfect clarity. “You look great.”

“I feel stupid. I should change. Jimin’s gonna think I’m weird if I wear this.” You try to turn and run back to your closet.

Yoongi plants his hands on your shoulders and spins you back to face the full-length mirror hanging over your door. “Look at yourself. Jimin’s gonna think you’re the hottest one at the party. Look at that makeup game.” He gestures to your face. “Wooo! So strong! Wow!”

Your lips twitch into a smile. Yoongi can be so sweet when he’s not busy pretending like he isn’t the softest man on earth.

“What if he doesn’t actually want me?” you ask, strings of doubt still plucking at your insecurity.

“He does,” he says with all the comfort you need in this moment. “I can tell with these kinds of things, you know.”

“That your like, weird sage sense you’re always telling me about? Reading the horoscopes doesn’t make you a fortune teller.”

He laughs. “Don’t be jealous of my power. Have I been wrong before?”

He hasn’t been, at least not with the advice he’s given you.

You exhale a huge breath and cock your head to inspect your appearance one more time. “What if you’re wrong?”

He hums a soft sound before planting a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Then he’s an idiot.”

A knock saves him from the overbearing hug you’re about to give him. He practically sprints towards the door. “That must be him! Pull your skirt up a little, would you? You’re not a nun and it’s gonna ride up anyway.” He pauses with his hand on the deadbolt and drops his tone to a rather loud, strained whisper. “Wait. What underwear are you wearing?”

Your eyes widen and your brows furrow as you angrily march over to your strappy heels and begin to put them on. “Why does it matter?” you whisper back.

“Are they the beige ones?”

“No!” Your hushed tone threatens to break into a shriek. “You know those are my period panties.”

“Please tell me they’re not the green ones.”

“Yoongi!” You get frustrated and lift your skirt just enough to show off a bit of the black lace adorning your buttcheeks as you lift your foot onto the nearby stool to finish setting the strap in place. “Satisfied?”

He breathes a sigh of relief and nods. “Good. Those are good.”

He opens the door faster than you can register the action. Jimin catches the flash of lace and more skin than he’s meant to see as you swing your leg down off the stool and adjust your dress. Heat flushes your face as you meet Jimin’s gaze. His eyes are wide and he licks his lips before nervously clearing his throat. He nonchalantly drops his hands and holds them together in front of his pelvis.

“You-You look good,” he stammers, completely stunned by your appearance.

“Thanks,” you reply with a shy smile. Park Jimin gets flustered? Who’d have thought?

He thought you were beautiful before but he’s never seen you like this. You’re completely decked out and drop dead gorgeous. He’s almost worried he’ll feel inadequate standing next to you tonight but it doesn’t stop him from wanting you by his side, hanging on his arm. He wants everyone to know that he’s there with you.

The pair of you stand there looking at one another and Yoongi slowly turns from Jimin to you, then back to Jimin.

“Have everything?” Yoongi prods, trying to get you to move so he can get on with his evening of relaxation and lazing about.

That seems to break you from your stupor and you nod and walk forward to hook your arm around Jimin’s. Before you get too far Yoongi calls to you and tests your reflexes by tossing your keys. You’ll need those if Yoongi is dead to the world asleep by the time you get home, which is quite possible. You’re not the most dextrous person but Jimin catches them and smiles at you. When you try to take them from his fingertip he moves his hand away and you swipe at the air. He offers to keep them in his pocket and you gratefully oblige. You pull your phone from its confines against your breast and check on the status of your uber with one hand while slipping your other into Jimin’s.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jin’s party is already in full swing by the time you arrive. It looks like something out of a movie. There are glowsticks, red solo cups, a buffet table of snacks, and loud music by the large inground pool. People inside and outside of this big ass frat house are grinding up on each other, dancing, and spilling their drinks on one another. It’s a little overwhelming honestly. You’ve never been much of a party person and this is a monster-sized one.

Jimin takes your hand in his and gives you a reassuring smile. “You want a drink, princess?”

“Yeah.” You grin and breathe a sigh of relief, feeling your insides melt at the sound of his voice. You know whatever happens tonight you’ll be okay with him by your side.

Jimin keeps you close all night, drinking and dancing and stealing the occasional quick kiss. It's pretty clear to everyone who's paying attention that there's something going on between you. You came with Jimin, you're there with Jimin, you're leaving with Jimin. Either Jungkook wasn't paying attention, or he just plain doesn't care. The moment Jimin leaves you alone to run to the bathroom, Jungkook steps up behind you in the chair you’re sitting on.

"Hey, y/n!" He smiles, all teeth and sleepy eyes. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when you turn to face him. "You look so pretty tonight."

"Thanks, Kook." You know he's one of Jimin and Tae’s closest friends. If you just hang with him until Jimin gets back, you'll be able to avoid the advances of all the weird guys here you aren't familiar with. "I like your boots," you tell him, looking down.

He follows your gaze to his feet. "Me too, I hope no one barfs on them tonight," he laughs, lifting his face back up to yours. The words are slightly slurred but you’re still able to decipher them.

His eyes definitely linger on your cleavage on their way back up. By the looks of it, he's on the short list of people who might end up barfing on those shoes. He holds his liquor well, but if you had to guess you'd say he's had more than he should have at this point in the night.

"So, I was talking to Taehyung recently," he starts with a mischievous glint in his eyes. The rest of his sentence seems to get lost in translation on the way to his mouth.

"And?" You smile at him and realize he’s probably too drunk to have anything of worth to say but you wait anyway.

"He told me something." Jungkook smiles so big his nose crinkles and he giggles like it’s the biggest secret in the universe.

You puzzle for a moment over what could have him so giddy before remembering that Taehyung is intimately familiar with your o-face. You'd gotten so close with him over the last two weeks that the details of your first time hanging out had completely slipped your mind. Jungkook is definitely about to say something crass.

"What did he tell you?" you ask, fearing you already know the answer.

Jungkook leans in closer so he can whisper in your ear. An amused giggle spills from his lips like he can’t contain the punchline to a joke only he knows. Somehow he gets his tone under control and finally speaks. "He told me your pussy tastes like heaven and what a coincidence," he pauses, "I haven't had dessert."

Jimin finds his way back to you just as you've moved to elbow Jungkook off your chair. Unfortunately, the alcohol in your system has your brain a little fuzzy and you misjudge the distance and location. You end up elbowing Jungkook right in the dick. Hard.

A circle clears around you as Jungkook doubles over in pain. Jimin steps up next to you, looking down at his friend and trying to piece together what might have led to you inflicting bodily harm.

Jungkook goes from bending over, to squatting, to laying on his side on the floor. He rolls onto his back still clutching the jewels despite the audience of people who have stopped to observe.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he squeaks out.

“Watch the boots,” you remind him as Jimin leans down to help him up and leads him towards something he can barf in. Through the crowd of people, you can see him just barely make it to a trash can in the kitchen. Gross.

Jimin gives Jungkook a pat on the back as he retches and reaches over him to grab a handful of jello shots off the counter. He returns with the rainbow of little cups clutched in each hand. The crowd seems to go back to their business of dancing and talking amongst one another, the random altercation just a fleeting moment in the night.

"What'd he do?" Jimin asks, holding his hand out to you so that you can make your selection.

"He came on to me." You shrug, picking a blue cup and popping the lid off.

"That's it? You elbowed him in the balls for hitting on you?" Jimin raises his eyebrows in shock and laughs.

"Well, it was kind of an accident. But," you pause to bring the plastic shot glass up to your lips, "he insinuated that he wanted to go down on me." You dip your tongue into the Jello and swirl it around the perimeter of its plastic casing.

Jimin watches you gather all the Jello up onto your tongue with rapt attention. He's growing so hard watching your tongue work like that. It’s driving him insane. He wants to feel it on him instead. He’s also now acutely aware of how badly he wants to swirl his tongue around your cunt, just like that.

"That makes two of us," he confesses with an enamored sigh. His hands are still full of Jello shots but that doesn’t stop him from holding your face between them.

He fiercely smashes his mouth to yours and you cave to the welcome intrusion of his tongue. It presses against yours, curling around it as he sucks the blue raspberry flavor from your mouth. You drop the empty cup to the floor and reach for his belt instead, pulling him against you until you can feel him pressed up against your stomach, hard and needy. He grinds his pelvis against you to be sure you can feel him.

“You feel that baby?” he asks, his tone low and sultry.

You grind back with a muffled hum. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re practically dry-humping each other next to the crowd of other sweaty, writhing couples. While Jimin likes how this feels, he’d like to regain the use of his hands. Jello shots be damned.

He pulls away for a second and looks around, depositing all but one of the unopened cups into the hands of the next person that walks by before he squeezes the chosen red one out on his tongue. He leans back in and presses his mouth to yours again. You can still taste artificial strawberry on his tongue. You're not even sure he swallowed before you started trying to lick his tonsils but you don't care. You want him now. You need him.

His thoughts are much the same as his free hand wanders down your back, dipping lower for just a second to feel the curve of your ass and squeeze. When you gasp he takes a step back and looks at you through hazy lust-drunk eyes. His lips are red from the gelatinous treat. You’d love to try and suck the color right out of them.

"Princess," he pants, his hands grabbing at your hips.

"Jimin," you breathe back, pulling him closer again. "Come home with me." It's not really an invitation. He'd be coming back with you anyway since he's currently living on your couch, but this has a different meaning and you both know it. It’s a plea for him to take you to bed.

You make out on the front lawn while you wait for the uber. You make out in the back of the uber on your way home. You make out on the way up the stairs and you leave a heart shaped love bite on his neck while he uses your keys to open the door. You make out pressed against the kitchen counter, and in the hallway.

Yoongi watches the pair of you act like he’s invisible as you stumble your way around the apartment. He has a spoonful of Fruit Loops half-lifted to his gaping mouth and finally takes his bite when you’ve made it to your room. Thank god you closed the door.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin isn't as shy this time about laying his weight over you once you’ve dropped down onto your bed. You’re warm and he seeks the heat of your body as your hands explore the taught muscles of his chest. They dance around his belt, slipping up over the curve of his perfectly round ass so you can squeeze and pull him against you, inviting him to grind his solid cock into you. Your movements get slower and more focused when you unbutton his shirt. He tugs it off his shoulders and throws it to the floor before helping you pull that tiny excuse of a dress over your head.

You're thanking your lucky stars you had the foresight to put on a matching set, despite how foolishly hopeful it felt at the time. The way Jimin is drinking you in wrapped in nothing but a little bit of black lace is making your head spin, or maybe that's the alcohol.

He sits back on his heels beside you, trailing his fingertips from your throat to the valley between your breasts. He skims over your belly button then side sweeps over your hip and down your thigh, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

"Wanna take those heels off, princess?" he asks, scooting toward them on his knees.

"I can do it," you insist, planning on making a show of dropping what's left of your modesty. You aren't counting on the way the room turns when you stand up too fast. Luckily, Jimin's reflexes are quick and his hands on your hips steady you before you can actually fall. Standing up is also doing something terrible to your stomach. It rolls and clenches and your anxiety skyrockets.

Parties aren't really your thing, and while Jimin might be drunk he is damn good at controlling it. On the contrary, it's becoming increasingly apparent that you are completely hammered.

"You okay?" Jimin asks, concern dripping from his tone. He stands up and turns you both so you can sit on the edge of your bed.

"I think... I'm drunk," you confess, unable to explain why you suddenly feel like crying.

"I think you're right, baby," he agrees, squatting down to unbuckle the ankle straps on your heels. "Let's get you some water."

Your stomach flips again and time slows as you feel the contents of the evening rise in the back of your throat. Panicking, you look to Jimin with wide eyes and a hand flying up to your mouth. He spins around looking for anything to catch what's surely coming and upends your little trash can. Candy wrappers and old class notes fall to the floor. He thrusts the can under your face just as a rainbow of Jello shots and reappears.

"I'm so sorry," you cry between heaves, tears streaking your make-up down your face.

"Shhh," Jimin soothes, gathering your hair away from your face. When he's sure you've finished, he disappears from the bedroom with the offending trash can and you're left with your horrible, alcohol twisted thoughts.

He's going to think you're pathetic and disgusting. Why on earth did you think you could drink that much?

Jimin returns with a glass of water before you can get much further into your self-deprecation.

"You're never gonna fuck me now," you blabber, your filter lost. Your thoughts are a jumble of sadness and muddled lust.

Jimin laughs. "Well, I'm definitely not gonna fuck you like this. I didn't realize you were this drunk," he softly says. It's a caring statement, not even a little bit condescending.

You should be grateful that he wants you sober for sex, but it only makes you cry harder because you really just want him so badly and you're absolutely certain you've ruined your chances beyond repair. So, you do the only thing that makes sense right now and cry harder.

Jimin wraps his arms around you and leans close to your ear. "I want to, you know. I want to lay you down and touch you all over." He presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. "I want to taste you, feel you. I want to be inside you so badly, but not like this."

"Please," you whine.

"Sober up first, okay?" he coaxes. "Can I help you get some pajamas? Brush your teeth?"

"Okay," you sniffle.

Jimin smooths his hand up your back, tracing the black lace band of your bra with the tip of his finger. “Do you want to take this off?”

You nod, reaching behind you to unfasten the clasp while Jimin reaches down to the floor for the button down shirt he discarded. He averts his eyes while you shed your bra, then holds his shirt open for you. You slip into it but don’t bother to button it up before walking to your door. He helps you get to the bathroom but you insist on doing it yourself so you can clean up and assess just how fucked up you really look right now.

When you close the door behind you, he makes sure to quietly apologize to Yoongi, who is still scrubbing the trash bin Jimin brought out earlier. Yoongi reaches into the cabinet for the bottle of Advil and gestures to a glass of water already on the counter.

Jimin waits for you to open the door and when you finally do he's relieved that you haven't fallen asleep. You've washed the makeup from your tear-streaked face and brushed your teeth. You've even pulled your hair back so it's no longer in the way. You look at him through a hazy apologetic lens as he offers you Advil and water. The last thing you want to do is ingest anything but if it will help you in the morning, you'll try it for his sake.

The journey from the bathroom back into your room is a blur. All you can think about is crawling back into bed and sleeping this awful feeling away. You struggle with the covers for a moment until Jimin helps you slide underneath them.

"I'm sorry. Don't hate me," you plead in a weak voice.

"Why are you sorry? I don't hate you," he assures you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He's shirtless. He could have been naked pounding your pussy stupid if you didn't overdo it on the drinks. You hate yourself a little bit for botching this chance, but if he could just put his arms around you again maybe you’d feel okay, like you didn’t blow it.

"Will you hold me?" you ask.

“Of course,” he replies softly.

The light in the room disappears and the mattress sinks behind you. His arms wrap themselves around your waist and his fingers twine with yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers when you squeeze his hand.

The heat of his breath brushes against your neck but you don’t close your eyes. You’re too dizzy. Instead you focus on the soothing rhythm of his breathing until the weight of your eyelids wins out against the nausea and sleep finally claims you.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Your ringtone wakes you late, when the sun in your room is far too bright to be any time before ten. The sound is grating and irritating and you pull your pillow over your head to block it out. Jimin reaches for the phone, you can feel his weight shift and the heat of his skin when he hovers over you.

"Hello?" His voice is gruff and coarse with sleep.

Peeking out from beneath the pillow, you look over to him. His eyes are still closed and your phone is laying on his bare chest, speaker on and screen lit up.

"Gimme your bae," Jungkook's voice calls through the phone.

"She's sleeping," Jimin tells him. Looking in your direction, he meets your eyes and smiles.

You vaguely remember him making you drink more water last night, giving you Advil, and tucking you in. It's a very pleasant surprise to find that you aren’t horribly hungover.

"Wake her up," Jungkook whines. "Bro. She hit me so hard."

Jimin laughs. "You deserved it."

"I know," Jungkook agrees. "That's why I'm calling. Can I talk to her please?"

"You're on speaker."

"Hi, y/n. I got your number from Tae."

"Hi Kook," you croak.

"I'm sorry I was a douche last night. I get stupid when I drink whiskey."

"I accept your apology. Don’t do it again. How's your dick?" you ask, scooting closer to Jimin and laying your cheek on his chest. He wraps his arm around you and kisses the top of your head. The gesture makes you feel warm all over. He likes you.

"It hurts but I'll live. Sorry. For real. Do you guys wanna go eat later?" he asks you both.

Jimin answers this time. "Maybe. We have stuff to do first. I'll text you." He hangs up before Jungkook can say more.

“What stuff are we doing, hmm?” you question with a giggle, trying to play coy.

“Depends how you’re feeling, princess,” Jimin replies, leaning over you again to deposit your phone on your nightstand. He lingers above you, prompting the cautious exploration of your fingers on his chest.

Suddenly, you are acutely aware of the awful taste in your mouth. In fact, you feel gross all over. Not exactly the way you want to experience sex with Jimin for the first time.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you tell him, wiggling out from under his body. “You must think I am the worst, most unattractive human.”

“No,” Jimin says with a giggle. “I think you’re sexy and sweet. I really like you y/n.”

“Nobody likes me.” You scoff at him in disbelief.

“It’s rude to call people nobodies, don’t you think? Especially when they’ve just confessed their feelings,” Jimin teases, sitting up beside you.

“Well, let me at least brush my teeth,” you tell him, holding his shirt closed around you while you rise from the bed. You step around the clean trash can that’s been placed at the side of your bed thanks to Yoongi, noting that there is also a neat row of condoms on your nightstand and a note that reads ‘be done by 5 i wanna watch Dragonball Z after work.’

You laugh and quickly take care of your morning bathroom routine in record time so you can make use of Yoongi’s gift.

When you come back to your room, Jimin is watching you. His lips are drawn down in a pout, his eyes are half closed, and his chest, still bare, rises and falls heavily with each breath he takes as he rakes his eyes over your bare legs and up. His shirt hangs open on your body, leaving a strip of skin visible from your throat to your panties. He licks his lips when your fingers drag a slow line up that strip.

Parting the soft fabric further, you let it fall from your shoulders and pool around your feet. Jimin sits up for a better view and you wait for embarrassment to strike. It never happens. Instead, his gaze emboldens you. He looks wrecked already and he hasn't even touched you yet.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

His assurance pulls you forward, one foot in front of the other until you’re close enough to touch and his hands are on your hips as you climb over him. He leans back under you as you push forward, connecting your lips with a force that borders on overeager. You can feel him smile against your lips and self-consciously, you will yourself to calm down. You have all day, there’s no need to rush.

When your kisses become soft and patient Jimin decides to take the initiative. He has to have you. He wants to be inside you. He sits up and sinks his hands into the flesh of your ass and begins to pull you down so he can grind up against your clothed cunt. When you moan his eyes roll back for a second and he buries his face into your neck to muffle the sound of his own. His tongue works in circles against you, giving you a taste of what’s to come before sucking a spot that has you burying your hand in his hair and grinding yourself down on him with need. He licks a hot stripe to your ear so he can whisper in it. In an instant he’s flipping you around on your back and grinding his pelvis against yours, allowing the dark desire to consume him.

“You like that, princess? You like feeling my cock on that sweet pussy of yours?”

“Yeah,” you whine, circling your legs around his hips. You can’t manage much more than that breathy reply, he is intoxicating and already you are drunk on his fumes.

“I hear it’s the sweetest. Made me so fucking jealous to hear Tae talk about you like that. You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you? Let me show you how good I can make you feel?”

“God did Tae just go around telling everyone?” you pause when the friction rubs against your clit just right. “Oh fuck,” you moan, imaging the pillowy soft press of his lips on your more intimate areas.

He chuckles in response. “No,” he assures you. “Just Jungkook and me. Don’t worry,” he says, persuading you with a careful roll of his hips that has his shaft parting your folds despite the layers of clothing between you. “He won’t talk about it anymore, and you’ll forget all about it by the time we’re done here. I’m gonna eat your sweet little cunt until mine are the only lips you remember.”

“Please,” you whimper, drawing him into a needy kiss.

His fingers dip into the band of your panties and he teases and tugs at them until you’re squirming and begging him to take them off. His lips trail wet kisses down to your breasts and he pauses to take your nipple into his mouth as he carefully works your last remaining piece of clothing down your legs.

Nudging your legs apart again, he settles between them, ghosting the pads of his fingers up the inside of your thigh as he drags your nipple gently with his teeth. He switches to repeat the action on the other side and cautiously slips a finger between your folds, parting them and testing your wetness. Much to his delight, he already finds you soaked.

“Jimin,” you breathe out. “Please.”

“Be patient for me, princess. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” He sits back on his knees between your thighs and uses his thumbs to smear your arousal over your lips. He groans something deep and tortured when he spreads them open.

“Y/n, holy fuck,” he whispers. “You’re perfect. So perfect.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at his praise. It feels like some kind of worship the way he looks down at your cunt, watching his fingers disappear inside you. His satisfied hum is like a hymn to the divine way your hot, slick walls squeeze him, a prayer to the mere idea of having that wet heat wrapped around his needy cock.

“Tae didn’t tell me you were so tight,” Jimin admits, looking up at you under his eyelashes.

“He only used his mouth,” you tell him, throwing your arm over your eyes. “I’ll never forget his lips if you keep talking about him.”

That seems to spark a fire in Jimin. His eyes grow dark and wild. He wants to ruin you. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh and begins sucking marks into the soft flesh while his fingers continue to pump inside of you. He slowly works his way down, making sure the red spots he leaves behind are sufficient enough to last for days. He makes sure you’ll have the reminder of his face between your legs every time you look down.

“Jimin don’t tease,” you beg, bucking your hips up to seek the warmth of his breath.

“I’m not teasing,” he chides. “I am savoring.” He curls his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit, making your legs jolt. “Trust the process.”

“Jimin--,” you start again, but you’re cut off by the first touch of his lips. It’s barely there, just the ghost of a kiss on your mound. It’s immediately followed by the flat of his tongue, pressing down as he moves it lower, slipping his fingers out as he descends. His tongue parts your folds instead, circling your dripping hole and then dipping inside it.

“Mmmmm,” he hums. “Fuck, you’re sweet.” He spreads you with his thumbs again and goes back for more, lapping at your wet cunt, swirling around your clit, sucking your folds into his lips. But it’s not just the action, it’s the drive behind it. He’s insatiable, moaning at the taste, bucking his hips into the mattress when you whine for him.

Your fingers tangle through his silver hair, twisting and pulling as he devotes himself to your undoing. He moves with you when you grind up against his jaw, stealing a glance up at your face. Jimin feels his cock twitch at the sight of you; breasts heaving, mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut. He’s leaking so much precum he can feel it soaking through his boxer-briefs. He’s almost afraid he’s going to lose it and cum in his pants.

“You gonna cum for me, princess?” he asks, lifting his face to push his fingers back inside. He pumps them hard, curling and searching for that elusive spot while he presses soft kisses to your clit. He alternates between flicking his tongue and rubbing against it with his lips, pausing every few seconds to whisper encouragements with warm breath puffed over your swollen bud.

“Come on, baby. Do it for me. Cum for me, princess. Let me taste it.”

“Please Jimin. Pleeeeease. I need you to suck it. Suck it harder,” you beg. “Right there. There! Don’t stop! Please! I’m so close.”

Jimin keeps steady for you despite your trembling thighs. He pounds your g-spot while he sucks as hard as you can take. Your mind goes totally blank, consumed by an orgasm so powerful you can see fireworks bursting behind your eyelids. Heat spreads from your core down your legs, up your spine.

“I’m cu— cumming— Jimiiiiin!” you cry, legs trapping his head like a vice. Your fingers leave his hair in favor of squeezing at your breasts as you ride out your orgasm. You buck your hips when he doesn’t let up after you’ve come down from your high.

“Take your pants off,” you pant, shoving at his head.

He finally pops off with a grin, his chin and lips covered in your slick.

“What if I’m not finished down here?” he teases, dipping his head back down to lick a stripe up your slit. Your whole body jumps when he touches your clit with the tip of his tongue. “Oh?” he feigns shock. “Sensitive?” he smugly asks, going back for one more taste.

“I wanna suck your cock,” you tell him, lazily pulling your legs up and turning your body away from him. You keep your eyes on him as you turn just enough to hang your head off the edge of the bed.

“Are you for real right now?” he asks, standing slowly. The tent in his pants is obscene.

“Please, Jimin. Just a little bit?”

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he sighs, tugging the zipper down on his jeans and letting them and his underwear fall to his ankles. He kicks them off and steps in front of you, smiling down at your upside down face, a little dumbfounded to have you wanting and willing to have him like this.

Your mouth waters at the sight of the swollen mauve tip standing at attention. He’s rock hard and so thick you’re not sure you can take him in your mouth, or your cunt for that matter. You’re glad he warmed you up with his fingers because you’re already clenching tight at the thought of that thick cock splitting you in two.

He reaches for the row of condoms as you take him in your hand and give him a few pumps. Just as he rips off one of the packets, you guide him towards the entrance of your mouth. You swirl your tongue against the tip and he drops everything, focusing on the way you tease him instead.

He inhales sharply. “Fuck. Who’s the tease now?”

You run your tongue along his shaft and smile when you get to the tip, giving it a quick kiss. “I’m savoring. What happened to trusting the process?”

He drags his lip through his teeth and clenches his jaw as you put his patience to the test but lucky for him you’re kind. He doesn’t have to wait long. You close your lips around him a moment later, reaching around his hips to guide him deeper, controlling the depth of his thrusts until he learns your limits and leans over you. With his hands on your breasts he rolls his hips. He can feel the tip of his cock bumping the back of your throat. He moans when you gag around him.

“That’s it, princess. Suck it. Just like that,” he praises.

Jimin is careful with his pace, and tender with his touch when he twists your nipples. He thinks he’s in control. He thinks he can take this just fine, despite the fact that your mouth feels fucking incredible. It’s when he watches you part your thighs and slip your hand between them to finger yourself while he fucks your mouth that he realizes he’s got none of the control he was so certain of. His balls tighten and he pulls out quickly and squeezes them, pinching at the tip of his cock and leaving you gasping for the breath you couldn’t catch with him in your mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I need a second,” he huffs, eyes closed, standing perfectly still. He breathes slowly and deeply. If you could peek into his brain you’re sure you’d see any number of boring things trying to distract him from the image of you fucking yourself with your fingers while you sucked his cock. It’s futile. He’s certain he’ll see it in his dreams.

“Did I do something wrong?” you wonder, shuffling around so that you’re laying back on your pillows.

Jimin ignores your question. He knows you’re well aware he almost came in your mouth. “I need to be inside you like, now,” he says, picking up the condom again.

You watch him tear it open and roll it on with his one knee pressed into the mattress and his other foot on the floor.

"Come on then," you coax, opening your legs for him to crawl between.

He pushes two fingers inside you on his way up, dragging them out slowly and smearing your wetness around your pussy before he lines his cock up and sinks in to the hilt in one smooth press.

You gasp as he fills you, feeling the stretch of his girth, and he hushes your whimpering and brushes his nose against yours. "I'm sorry baby," he soothes. "I'll go slow." He seals the promise with a kiss before hiking your legs up high around his waist and wrapping his arms around you.

He lies still like this, waiting for the green light while he kisses you breathless. He moves to your neck when you break away to inhale, sucking more little bruises in the skin there. "Tell me when."

"Move," you moan. "Move. Fuck me."

Jimin pulls out slowly, leaving just the tip inside. He pushes back in just as slow, repeating the action several times until it looks like you're about to cry.

You need it so badly. It feels cruel to have him rocking so gently inside you when all you want is to be ruined by him. "Harder," you plead.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't make me beg," you whine.

"What if I want you to beg?" he jokes, dropping his hips against you. It's almost hard enough to satisfy you.

"Then I'll beg."

Jimin groans, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sets a brutal pace. He pounds into you, forcing the air from your lungs with his powerful thrusts, rolling his hips like his life depends on it. "You're so fucking good for me, princess. So tight. Feels so fucking good."

"Go faster," you tell him, grabbing a handful of his ass.

Shifting higher on his knees, he picks up the pace. Sweat beads on his forehead and over his lip. It beads in the dip of his cupid's bow and you lick it away before raking his bottom lip through your teeth.

“You feel my fat cock baby?" he asks. You moan in response pulling your legs higher so he can fuck you even deeper. "You like the way I fill you, don't you? Want me to fuck you full of my cum? Take it," he grunts. "You take it so fucking well. You gonna cum for me again, baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts.

Jimin pulls out when you start to clench, not quite edging you but stealing the pleasure you were high on nonetheless. You whine at the loss of him, walls fluttering wildly around nothing.

"Can we try something?" he asks, lifting your legs and putting them to the side.

"What did you have in mind?" you wonder. You reach for his cock but he's already moving, nudging at your hips until you turn.

"Up on your knees for me, princess," he instructs. He kneels behind you once you're in position and smooths his hand up your spine, guiding you gently down onto your elbows. “Is this okay?”

“It’s good,” you assure him, wiggling your hips a little to get him moving again.

He teases your slit with the tip of his cock, dragging it through your folds and rubbing it against your clit. Finally, he pushes back inside you, coaxing a fresh wave of arousal with the stretch of his girth. It’s deeper like this and impossibly you feel even more full than you did before.

“Oh, Jimin,” you sigh, dropping your face into your folded arms. “Jimin.”

“Good?” He folds himself over you, pressing his chest to your back and sliding his hands from your hips to your breasts.

You thrust yourself back into him as you answer. “Perfect. You?”

It takes him by surprise but he follows your lead. He drives himself into your cunt while massaging your breasts and kissing your back. “Fuck, y/n…” he moans, letting his teeth drag over your shoulder before he bites down.

You hiss at the sting and he soothes it with his tongue and puckered lips.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous taking my cock like this. Feel how deep I am. You’re squeezing me so tight, baby.”

“Jimin? Jimin, I need—,” you gasp out between thrusts.

“What, princess? What do you need?” he questions, releasing a breast to play with your clit instead. “Want me to pull your hair? Want me to fill you with my cum?”

“I wanna ride you.”

“Oh, fuck.” Jimin pulls back immediately.

He lays down beside you and grabs at your waist, guiding you over his cock and holding on tight as you drop your weight and take him completely. Swiveling your hips, you set a pace slow and steady. Jimin’s thumbs rubs soft circles into your skin as you move.

“Go faster,” he urges, unable to keep his hips from rising to meet yours.

You shake your head ‘no’ and continue with your slow rolling pace.

“Please, y/n. Ride it like you wanna cum with me.”

Smirking devilishly, you slow down even more and lean over him with your hands on either side of his head.

He looks down, watching your breasts sway and the way his cock disappears over and over.

“Fuck, y/n. PLEASE,” he whines, roughly grabbing your hips and pounding up into you.

Your startled laugh quickly turns into desperate cries of his name. His cock hits your g-spot directly. It feels so good you don’t even think you need him to touch your clit to make you cum. But he does. He pinches your bud between his fingers while he slams into you, growling and moaning and begging you to cum with him.

“I’m close,” he grunts, licking his fingers and rubbing furiously at your clit.

“Me too,” you whine. “I’m gonna—”

You don’t have time to finish the thought as he takes you over the edge with him. He slams his head back against the pillows as he pumps his hips and cums to the wild pulsing of your orgasm. Your cunt milks every last drop from him and you cry his name, clutching his wrists and letting your head fall back so you can wail your pleasure at the ceiling.

Jimin gasps, picking up his head to look down at how your pussy spreads open around him. Your slick cum coats the condom and his mouth waters, remembering the sweet tang of your taste. You’ve barely stopped grinding on him when he sits up to push you down on your back.

Pulling out, he kneels beside the bed and pulls you to the edge by your legs so he can gently lick you clean. He exhales a hot and heavy breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before standing up to peel the loaded condom off his softening cock.

“That was… wow,” you pant, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as you try to regain your breath.

He’s already back at your side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you towards his chest.

“Yeah,” he agrees while softly combing his fingers through your hair. He’s tired.

You smile against his sweaty chest and plant a soft salty kiss against him. Through the corner of your eye you see the row of untouched condoms on your nightstand. “We’ve got a lot left. Wanna go again?”

He hums a deep throaty sound and laughs when your hand falls to his limp cock. “I want to, but I need a bit to recharge. I can make you cum again while we wait. Do you want that, baby?”

“I always want that. But you don’t have to.”

The groan in his throat sounds croaky as he leans in to kiss your forehead. “I want to.”

He reaches down to wedge his fingers between your thighs and your whole body jumps at the sensitive sensation. How dare your body betray you in this moment?

“Seems like you might need time to recharge too,” he teases while nuzzling against the top of your head and squeezing you in a warm embrace against him. “I’m okay with just laying here and holding you.”

“Yeah?” You smile and cross your leg over his to get more comfortable. “Mmm. You can always help me study for the next test while you’re here.”

Laughter bubbles from his throat. “Are you trying to seduce me for answers to the exam? You know I don’t grade them, right.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, barely containing your giggles as you look up at him. “I don’t think I need to seduce anyone for answers. My head feels a little clearer now.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he prods while playfully ghosting his fingers down your side.

“Because I know I can be distracted outside of class now instead. I mean, if you wanna keep doing this,” you explain while nervously drumming your fingertips on his chest. “I know I’m not anything special, but—”

Jimin lifts your chin and pulls you into a deep kiss. “You are,” he whispers when he pulls away.

You lick your lips and blink a few times. “I was gonna say you make me feel like I am the most special vanilla ice cream cone on the planet.”

His shy, warm smile fills your stomach with butterflies even as he makes his joke. “Want me to lick you up?”

“And so much more.”

It’s a weighted confession. You sit up to look at him so he knows this. He purses his lips and casts his away. He was avoiding this conversation.

“I don’t know how much more I can give you. I want to be what you deserve, but things are so hard right now. I don’t know that I can be someone who’s good enough for you. You deserve to be showered in gifts and taken on dates. You deserve to be given flowers every day. I don’t even have a car to take you somewhere for a vacation. I’m not sure I can be what you want.”

“Just be yourself,” you state plainly, cupping your hand around his jaw. “That’s what I want. So far I like the person I see. I like you, the real you.”

“I like you too,” he blurts, eyes snapping back to meet yours. “But I can’t afford—”

You press a finger to his lips. “I don’t need expensive dates or fancy gifts. I don’t need you to take care of me— well, last night was the exception and you didn’t need money for that. I just want you to be with me. Talk with me. Spend time with me. Maybe have lots of sex? I don’t know, we can figure out the rest later.” You laugh, embarrassed by your own boldness.

“You see everything that I am and you still want me.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing. Now I know for sure you’re too good for me. But,” he pauses and slips his hands into yours, “I want to keep seeing you. I like talking to you and the more time I spend with you, the more certain I feel about the choices I’ve made. No one’s ever made me feel so free. I want to hold onto that feeling. I want to hold onto you.”

You tell yourself not to cry as you straddle his waist and hover above his lips. “I’m yours then. Are you mine?”

He catches your lips between his and buries his hands in your hair. “I’m yours.”

[legends-live-in-memories]

Picture Perfect

AYO! its me back with more content for the second time this week while i ignore my other wips again. this is a lil gift for @queen-o-leen who i promised wholesome content for! I hope you like it!

Timinette/Timari Oneshot 1.9K words (not related to my other timari oneshots)

Summary:

“Tim spends a nice day in a park in Paris and takes a picture of a pretty girl.

He somehow gets an almost date out of it.”

no warnings this time. completely family-friendly. I know i surprise myself with this one too.

without further ado

He would be the last to admit that Jason was right and that time away was what he needed at this point in life but it can’t be ignored that, for the first time in possibly three years, Tim was having a wonderful day. He was having a wonderful week actually. After one too many unsuccessful cold cases and the simmering anxiety of off-world missions, his family, primarily Jason, for some reason, demanded that he take some time off and away from his unusual brand of normal. How that meant being sent across the Atlantic Ocean to Paris of all places, he wasn’t entirely sure. Alfred probably had a hand in that decision given that, as part of his forced vacation, Tim was not allowed to actually plan any of it. Him. Timothy Jackson Drake. The guy who stalked and manoeuvred his way into Batman’s house and team. The guy who tracked and found said man when the universe thought he was dead but was actually drifting through time. Yeah, Tim was not pleased about being led blind on his vacation. 

At least Paris was a nice city. And he brought his camera. He figured he could use this time to get back into old hobbies and what better hobby to start up again in the city of love than photography? He’s taken pictures of every tourist attraction worth visiting by his second day and began to take candid shots of people and animals. Would Damian like the animal pictures? Maybe, if they came from someone who wasn’t Tim. Is he going to try and give them to him anyways? Absolutely not. He liked his liver where it is, thank you very much. They would serve as great bribing material however. But that’s a thought for another day. 

Right now he was working on capturing what could possibly be described as the stereotypical outing with friends. He’s sitting along some bushes near the entrance of a park and staring at a group of teens his own age hanging around. He spots a brunette with thick curls of hair animatedly speaking with a guy in a vibrant cap. She’s waving a camera herself, and he appreciates her taste in equipment. Her eyes spark with fox-like mischief while the cap guy has a peaceful aura about him; like an old turtle. Next he sees a blonde, her hair is in a ridiculously high ponytail and she’s in a deep conversation with a red head off to the side of the whole group; her words are rushing out of her and she’s a buzzing bee with excitement. Another blond is in the area, but he sits in a broad patch of sun possibly napping with an open book on his chest. Very cat-like Tim supposes. He barely pays them more than a second of thought however. No. 

His focus is on the quaint beauty directly in his line of sight. She’s poised up against the giant tree trunk with a sketchbook in her lap and pencils surrounding her. Her hair hangs by her shoulders in twintails and it’s a colour so dark it seems to absorb the shade of the tree. She’s scribbling furiously on the page before her and her tongue is slightly peaking out to the side. Her forehead is creased with stress lines and her shoulders hunch slightly over her frame. She’s the vision of deep concentration and dedication and Tim would be a fool not to capture her. He’s gotten wide shots of her companions but now he wants to focus on her. 

Looking through the lens of his camera he zooms in on her profile. When his camera focuses, he spots a constellation of freckles across her cheeks, barely there, almost blending in with her complexion but Tim is nothing if not hypervigilant. He goes to take another photo when a bug flies into view. It’s a ladybug. It lands precariously on the tip of her nose and it’s just the thing that breaks her out of her work-induced trance. Tim is watching her now, long forgetting to click the shutter. Her eyes cross as she stares intently at the black-spotted creature and its presence seems to amuse her. She’s giggling to herself, as if sharing an inside joke with the bug and reaches a slim finger to swipe the insect gently from her nose. She inspects it and smiles a smile so soft that not even a feather could compare. He feels like an intruder. More so than one who takes pictures of cute strangers in public. 

Coming back to his senses, he takes another picture, the final picture, and lowers the camera from his face. He looks back at his temporary muse and finds that she is already looking at him. Her head tilts in confusion. Apprehension. Possibly a bit of fear. Which is valid given that Tim was pointing a camera at her from across the public park. What should he do though to quell her fears? 

He felt his face lift into a grin; he didn’t need to look at himself to know it was awkward and forced. A shrug of his shoulders and a flimsy wave of the camera in his hand was the only thing he did. Before he could begin to stumble over himself in apology, however, she surprised him. With a cautious hunch, her shoulders brought up to her ears, and an embarrassed smile to match his own, she slowly flips her sketchbook around and he comes face to face with, well, his face. It was a portrait of him. She had drawn a portrait of him. And she was showing him. Feeling embolden, he flips his camera to show her the screen but she’s too far away. He gets up on unsteady legs, cramped from his uncomfortable position, and begins a slow stride towards her. She meets him in the middle.

“Hi.” He barely speaks those words. They’re more like an exhale or a sigh of relief that he hadn’t scared her off. 

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind the drawing.” Her voice is high and light. Like a spring breeze. She’s daintily waving at him and he sees that her fingers are rough, and calloused. Unexpected but he finds it rather charming. Before he could get another word in, she’s off like an engine. “I just saw you there, and you had your camera so I figured you were taking pictures of us and thought that if you were then you wouldn’t mind me sketching you in kind but I should have asked and I’m sorry for breaching your privacy—” 

“Wait, slow down.” He fears that if he hadn’t interrupted her when he did she would run out of oxygen. Did she even breathe during her spiel? A voice in his head, that sounds like Cass, utters a soft ‘pot, kettle’ and okay, he sees a lot of himself in her mile-a-minute style of speaking. 

“No need to apologize. I’m flattered, truly. You were right, I was taking pictures of you. And your friends!” he hastily adds that last part. He turns his camera so the display screen faces her and he feels himself hold his breath in anticipation. 

A blush rises to her cheeks, red like the ladybug that interrupted her. He quite likes that colour on her. His eyes drift to the sketch and he’s further impressed by her skill. She has an eye for detail. He notices a bird in the background. It’s a robin. That piques his interest and lights a flicker of fear within him. 

“May I ask,” he begins slowly, unsure of what that little addition could mean. Did she know? How could she? Was his identity compromised?

“Why did you draw a robin in the background? It’s lovely but I’m curious,” he finishes. He’s going to play dumb until he has more information. She seems taken off guard by the question and raises her shoulders to her ears again in an embarrassed hunch.

“Well,” she starts, but she seems unsure and the words die on her tongue. She tries again.

“I just saw it fly by and then it landed behind you. So I thought ‘why not?’ and drew it. It seemed fitting.” She wasn’t looking him in the eye and now he felt kind of felt like a jerk for baselessly accusing some random girl. Of course it was just a coincidence. This bat-paranoia was going to be the end of him one day. It’s by sheer miracles and luck why it hasn’t already. 

“Oh, no worries. It just surprised me because it’s my favourite bird.” Right. Lie to the pretty French girl. But what else could he do? Tell her the truth?

“Then it’s a cool coincidence, huh?” She seems encouraged by that tidbit of information.

“Yeah, pure luck on your part.”

“What?” She seems more startled at that than Tim thinks she should be but before he can think deeper into it she speaks again and he would be a fool to not give her his undivided attention.

“Why did you take a picture of me with the ladybug? If you don’t mind me asking.” That stumps him because, to be honest, he does not know why himself. It just felt right. So he tells her as such.

“Well that would be another coincidence because ladybugs are my favourite insects.” She gives him a full smile alongside that statement and the brilliance of it almost blinds him. He wants to capture that smile for eternity. 

The thought strikes him. He doesn’t want this moment to end. He knows by the Friday of next week he’ll be flying back to Gotham where it’s business as usual and Red Robin won’t have time for commitments and puppy love. But right now? Right now Tim Drake is on vacation with a week and half left and all the time in the world to entertain the idea of a spring romance. Making the decision, he goes for it and takes the chance.

“I was getting a bit hungry. Do you know anywhere that’s good to eat at?” It’s an offer, open to interpretation. If she just lists some place, he knows where her interests lay. If she offers to escort him somewhere, then she’s taken the bait for exactly what it is, an invitation for more; whatever more is. He hopes she takes the bait. 

“Yes I do actually! My parents own a bakery just outside the park.” Her enthusiasm is uplifting and the offer of a place so personal is a good sign in Tim’s book. “Let me show the way, and I could join you if you would like.”

“Perfect. That’s wonderful. It will be my treat since you’re going out of your way on my account.”

“Nonsense. Like I said, it’s my parents’ bakery. They’ll be more than happy to give some complimentary snacks.” She loops her arm around his and begins to drag him to the park gate. She’s strong and her grip is firm and Tim feels lightheaded at the ease with which she pulls him. He can’t help but be swept up in the tides that is this girl. 

“I’m Tim, by the way. Tim Drake.” He offers his name, something he should have done at the beginning.

She looks back at him over her shoulder and he’s caught up in the oceans of her eyes. They’re alight with joy. 

“Nice to meet you, Tim. I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

“Nice to meet you too.”

They’re almost by the bakery now, he can smell the fresh baked goods from here, and he can’t wait to sit down and get to know this girl better. Maybe get her number by the end of their lunch.

Yeah. Tim was having a wonderful day.

[thestarsoutofyourwindow]

Forbidden Library - The Doctor x Reader

This was written with 11 in mind, but you can easily see it as 10, so it’s your preference! I wrote this as a description experiment, then tried to apply some story to it. I’ve been trying to master character/body language too, so this took a while to write because I just couldn’t settle on anything, so I just gave up. If this does well I may do a part two, and I’ll try to make it more romancy. Word Count: 2,161 Summary: You hear a book fall whilst in the library and go to investigate. You stumble upon a book that answers the questions you’ve been asking yourself for a long time, but you just can’t bring yourself to lie to the Doctor about it. Warnings: Time War heavily referenced, Comforting the Doctor, A lot of description, You find it hard to lie, Reassuring the Doctor.

All of time and space, he said. Wherever, whenever, and home in time for tea.  The Doctor has always been a bit of an enigma to you. You knew practically nothing about him, yet if anyone had asked, you would consider him one of your closest friends. However, whether or not you're the sort to ask questions, you had a feeling he isn't as honest as you'd like to believe.

The first time you had asked him about his people and planet, he ignored you completely, babbling about the asteroid you were supposed to be visiting. The second time you had asked, he dodged around it, giving you a half-arsed response. All he told you is that his race died out a long, long time ago and that there was a war. After that, he excused himself, and you couldn't bring yourself to mention it to him again.

You had to admit, that puzzled you: you had believed it to be a sensitive subject, so of course, you left it there. No matter how curious you were, you're not going to force The Doctor into reliving anything he'd rather not. But sometimes it did keep you up at night. The Doctor had never seemed like the fighting sort, but something about his recount didn't settle right with you. You weren’t sure what. Usually, on those nights where you end up in an hours-worth of conversation with the TARDIS, you would truly realise how much you thought about it. As weird as it sounded, you felt she was listening as she would often click or whirr in response. You felt insane the first time you did it, but the longer you spoke to her, the more normal it felt. You hardly mentioned your conversations to the Doctor, but whenever you did, he only grinned to himself.

"Doctor?" You peeked into the library. It was, and always will be, the most impressive library you had ever seen. There were cherry-wood bookshelves, that stood towering over you, each shelf overfilled with beloved, worn books. The library was like a maze, asides from the sitting area where a few chairs huddled around a fake-fireplace, there was an indeterminable quantity of shelves. The rest of the library was lit up by fairy lights, which looked as if to be a new addition to the systematic chaos, making the already supernal library look even more mystical. According to the Doctor, the TARDIS has full management over the configuration and layout of the bookshelves, sort of like the Hogwarts stairs. There were step-ladders haphazardly scattered throughout the library. There was the occasional ivy plant that had grown and twisted down the bookshelves. One day you had been scrolling through Tumblr, and a post with ivy plants showed up on your feed. You talked about how cool that is to the TARDIS; within the next week ivy sprung up all over the place, including the kitchen. The Doctor made a passing remark about the ivy plants, and you confessed, alongside a frantic apology. He laughed, telling you it didn't bother him.

"Yeah, Y/n/n?" He mumbled, not so much as blinking away from his book. He hunched over it; his legs draped off the arm of the chair due to his inability to sit correctly. He nestled himself in a duvet, and which would be inconspicuous if not for his head poking out. "Have you seen... Woah. Fairy lights!" You smile, looking up at the tastefully draped lighting. "Is this your doing?" The Doctor asks ludicrously, turning to face towards you, gesturing over at the shelves, "I knew the TARDIS liked you, but this is getting ridiculous."

You chuckle for a moment before peering back at him, "I only came here to ask if you'd seen the book I left on the kitchen counter, but if you're going to criticise me so rudely, well I guess I'll go trip over something important." The Doctor grimaced at that, "That's really not necessary, I think... Yeah, I brought it in here with me earlier." He gestured the book out at you, over the back of the armchair. You stepped closer, about to take the book, when he pulled it away, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you going to do some reading? If so, would you like to, um, maybe sit and join me?" "Yeah, why not?" You marvel, looking him dead in the eye. You walked around the chair and sat on the armchair next to his.

You cosied down and tried to focus on reading. However, your anxieties and considerations began cropping up again. You lost yourself in thought over what the Doctor keeps from you. Peeking up at the Doctor, you noticed his eyelids drooping. You watched attentively; you had never seen him asleep, oddly enough. His head, already tilted into his chest, slipped further. His tousled brown hair settled on his face, and his breathing eased. His grip on the book slackened. You remained there, admiring the sleepy face you had grown attached to over the months of touring time and space together.

Due to the endearing nature of his subtle breathing, you hardly realise the TARDIS clicking to get your attention. A distant thump draws you out of your hypnosis, the sound emanating from deep in the library. You stir noiselessly out of the armchair, as to not disturb your friend, and hesitantly edge towards the direction you assume it originated. You notice a small, cherry wood door in the wall between some bookshelves. Convinced you have never seen that door before, you approach the door. Stopping dead in your tracks for a moment, you take a moment to calm your nerves. The TARDIS would never let you get hurt, at least if she could help it. You reached your palm out towards the handle and, taking the TARDIS's silence for approval, enclose your hand around the metallic knob and twist.

Behind the door was what appeared to be the smaller section of the library, perhaps it's a study full of books the Doctor had just never taken back to the library? From what you could make out through the darkness, and the distinct smell of dust, the bookshelves were similarly themed to the ones outside. Although, these shelves are in a much smaller room, both vertically and horizontally. A desk was facing towards the door on your left, and a beanbag on the floor to your right.

You were about to close the door and leave, ready to call it his study and leave it at that. But as the door was half-closed, it dawned on you that the Doctor had never even mentioned this room, and the room appeared as though it had been undisturbed for a long time. This room would be pretty redundant, and the TARDIS surely would've reorganised the books onto the shelves, right? With that in mind, you re-entered the room, curiosity brimming in your eyes as you notice the book in the middle of the floor. It's TARDIS blue cover stood out like a sore thumb against the crimson carpet, regardless of how dark the room was. As you knelt to pick up the obscure book, the ceiling light flickered on.

"History of the Time Lords: All you need to know." You mumbled as you read. You habitually flip the book in your hands to read the blurb, the grey foiled text read, "From humble beginnings to the vicious politics of the time war, here is everything you need to know about the history of our civilisation." You checked to see if there is a contents page, of which there is. None of the chapters stood out, except for perhaps, Gallifrey Falls. It clicked in your mind that Gallifreyan must equate to Time Lord, at least to some extent. The Doctor had referred to himself as the last Time Lord.

You flip to the chapter and settle down on the floor, considering you may be there for some time.

And by god, you were. You read about everything from the potential causes, to the effects on the rest of the universe. What you paid the most attention to, however, was the Doctors' involvement. For the most part, he stayed out of the war, asides from helping the victims. But whoever had "restored" him, had pinned the continuing deaths on the Doctor and his lack of involvement, which had finally made him give in. The Doctor fought for literal decades on the front line.

No wonder he didn't want to talk about it.

You read on about the sacrifices he made and the Daleks. They always survived, no matter what he did. By the time you had wrapped up two or three chapters, you had worked yourself up. Even if you're not the emotional sort, just the thought of the Doctor having to go through all of that brought you to tears. You kept imagining the burden he must be carrying, keeping from you and Amy. The decisions he has made.

You stood up, the book still in your hands, and make your way back to where you had left the Doctor.

Upon re-entering that section of the library, it took you a moment to realise that your companion no longer huddled in the armchair. There was no trace of him. You hoped he had withdrawn to his room, and took a step towards his chair.  "Y/n!" A hand landed on your shoulder. You recoiled, whirling around to face the weary-eyed Doctor, pulling the large book to your chest, "There-... what's up?" "Nothing, I-I just thought you had gone to your room, is all. You scared me." You exhale a sigh of relief, gently laughing as you spoke. "What have you got there?" He scrutinised inquisitively, eyes pinned on the book you were gripping so tightly. "Oh, It's a book," The Doctor raised a brow at you and rolled his eyes, a smile on his cheeks, and you thoughtlessly added an, "Well, of course, it is, uh, it fell off a shelf in a sort of study room- I heard it and went to see what it was." You handed the book over sheepishly. It wasn't your book to keep, after all. You didn't want to admit it, but a part of you didn't want to lie to the Doctor, either.

He shifted the book about until he could comfortably read it; the moment his eyes darted back up to you, eyebrows curved upwards, smile extinct, you could've sworn something shattered behind his eyes. Noticing this, you couldn't stop yourself from clarifying, "I, I did read a bit of it, quite a lot actually- out of curiosity. Look, I'm, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise when I kept asking you about Gallifrey, and the war- if I'd known the half of it-" You paused, taking a deep breath and looking into his eyes, "Look, If you want me to forget about this, that's cool- I, erm, can just pretend this never happened, and I'll make sure to keep Amy/Donna off your ass about it," "Humans, you're so," The Doctor mutters exasperatedly, gesturing outwards with his hands, before sighing, he puts his hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently, "You know, Y/n. You don't have to stay. I get it, I really do. I killed my entire species, nothing co-" "Doctor. You cannot honestly tell me that it is your fault. I won't sit here and listen to you take the blame for something you avidly tried to avoid. From what I read, you tried to help- you swore to help, to make up for something out of your control," You rest your hands on his upper arm, shaking him gently as you speak, "You did your best, you did what you thought was the right thing, and most importantly, you saved the whole of time and space, again, from the Daleks and the Time Lords." The Doctor hesitated, lips pursing as he looked away. You offer him a hug, and he quickly accepts, his arms wrapping around your waist. You try your very best to make it the best hug you've ever given. You hold him firmly and flatten the back of his hair soothingly as you speak, "Treat yourself the way you'd treat someone else, you know? I know it's been a long time, but I need you to know that I'm not leaving you for doing the right thing." The Doctor took a shaky breath, "Yeah. Thank you." He breathily laughed, "I wish I had met you sooner." You smiled, "Well the day you figure out how, I will have prepared some very, strong words for you." He hummed in affirmation into your shoulder, "I'll have to work on that." The two of you just stood there for a bit, hugging each other. You impulsively touch a kiss against the Doctors temple as the two of you separate. 

[guqin-and-flute]

In Your Hands--Ch. 3 [Peony to Lotus!Verse]

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2]

[This whole fic is the second chronological installment of the Peony to Lotus!Verse]

[First Installment] [Ao3 Series]

“...A-Jie?”

“Mm?” Yanli opens her eyes, going from the deep red-orange of the sun on her eyelids to the fresh blue of the world. She cranes her neck around to look over at A-Cheng. 

And finds that he’s no longer basking beside her and is instead sitting up, elbows on his knees, hands fiddling with something on the ground in front of him. 

It had taken some convincing to get him to actually lay down in the grass with her as A-Xian and A-Yao man the kites for target practice below them in the waterfall grotto--he is so concerned with being proper and respectable that he hardly lets himself relax anymore. He isn’t even relaxing now. While his gaze is on the disciples playing and training below their bluff-top vantage point, his lips are tight, his face troubled. Sitting up, she scoots closer to him and nudges her shoulder up against him, playfully. “What is it, A-di?”

The wind dances over the dewy spots the sun-warmed grass had left on her robes, lifting up the fresh and living scent of plants and water as she waits for his jaw to work over the words before they come out. For all that he blurts out whatever he wants about (or at) Xianxian, he is always careful when it comes to something regarding her. So she waits, gentling her energy and leaning closer to rest her temple against his hunched shoulder, rubbing her thumb along the tough leather of his bracer. 

“Are you...happy?”

She smiles, even though he can’t see it. “Of course I am, A-Cheng. It’s a beautiful day and we’re spending time together. Why?”

“I mean, are you happy...in general? With….” As he pauses, she follows his still stuck gaze and finds it on A-Yao in the shade holding a kite string, listening to something a shimei is saying with a patient smile. “I didn’t...we didn’t force you, did we? You really seemed to like that peac--well, you know. Wei Wuxian and I were wondering…” He looks back to his hands, twisting grass between them fitfully, but she sees his gaze dart to her sideways from underneath his eyebrows. “Are you happy?”

Sweet, romantic boys; the ones who had planned her wedding in full when they were only 8. Both still haunted by the wounds left by her parents’ relationship in their own way. Who had both been more than unimpressed with Jin Guangshan’s attempt at what he clearly saw was a hand-me-down marriage--a marriage they were apparently forgetting that, had she not insisted on for the good of the Clan, wouldn’t have even happened. “With you all taking such good care of me, how could I be anything but?” she teases, but his anxiety stays on his face, so she pets down his hair.

As for Jin Zixuan…. Yanli hadn’t flinched when A-Cheng had said his name, but that familiar drain had opened up in her chest, pulling her down and in until she’s a little smaller, a little sadder, a little...less. Yes. She had wanted to become worthy of that match, for her Clan, for her mother, who had promised her to it since she was just a girl. She had tried.

She just hadn’t been enough. 

“Is he good to you?”

Yanli shakes herself from her thoughts and sits up. She laces her fingers together and cushions her chin on the back of them with a faux thoughtful air. “Hmmm, is he good to me? Well, let’s see. I think I’ve received about 4 more gifts from him this week alone and he practically waits on me hand and foot.” She grins despite herself, that familiar giddy curling in her belly. “I would certainly say so.”

At this easy reply, he slants a curious, self conscious look that fits the round faced child she can still remember better than a would-be-stern Clan Leader and hesitantly asks, “Are you...in love?” while waggling his finger back and forth, as if indicating the space between her and her husband.

She covers an unlady-like snort of laughter that threatens to escape before she bites her lip against its persistent aftershocks and lowers the hand. “Why do you ask that like you’re going to get in trouble?” Something about the way he asks it just seems so young.

Flushing, he squirms and looks back down the bluff, but she sees the smile trying to fight its way onto his compressed lips. “I’m just curious!” When she continues to grin, he shoots her a look of reproach and complains, “A-jie, don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not, I would never!” She laughs and rubs his shoulder to lessen the sting of the tease. “You’re so funny. But...I think...I don’t honestly know. I love talking with him and learning about him; I love...making him happy and seeing him smile. I get excited to spend time with him. I was always under the impression that being in love is something huge and earth shaking--from all the legends and epics--and when you know you know, but…” Yanli takes a deep breath of the clean, full air and looks back down, catching her eyes on the lovely, now-familiar shape of A-Yao in profile. Now, he’s looking up at the kites while shading his eyes, a small smile still on his lips. “But I’m just...happy. It’s lovely, with him, and honestly, I would be completely content if this is all it is.” It would be enough.

She searches this thought, a little, pushing at its edges. For a family? For children? To want? The answer within herself doesn’t feel nearly as urgent as it used to when it comes back with ‘Maybe. There’s no rush.’ She marvels a little at how much she actually believes it.

Watching her watch A-Yao, A-Cheng smiles tentatively in the side of her vision. “That sounds really nice, A-jie.”

“It really is. He’s very...doting.”

At this, A-Cheng snorts. “Unsurprising, considering how he was with Nie-xiong.”

“Oh? Were they close, A-Yao and Nie-er-gongzi?” 

“He definitely was devastated when Jin-xiong was kicked out of the Unclean Realm. I always got the feeling that he was something in between a shixiong and a babysitter, but they always got along well, from what I saw. Actually,” he furrows his eyebrows thoughtfully, tilting his head as he watches the disciples milling about, joyful fragments of shouts drifting up with the breeze. “Come to think of it, I don’t know that he’s seen him since….They weren’t in contact during the Sunshot Campaign, we know that much. Maybe they got to talk at the banquet?” His face darkens at the memory--where Jin Zixuan had officially called off the engagement, but he doesn’t speak on it. “I wonder what Nie-xiong thinks of him being here.” His scowl lightens to mere irritation and he scoffs, voice testy, now, as he adds, “Hasn’t bothered to visit.”

Hmm. She plucks this blossoming idea like a little flower to keep for later. Perhaps this is something else she could give her husband. 

And oh, that distant past, when she had first seen A-Yao in the classroom of the Cloud Recesses, standing humbly beside Nie Huaisang with his head down. A whole lifetime ago, when her family and Clan still lived and her biggest worry was Jin Zixuan’s aversion; it felt like an entire version of her had lived and died since. If she set herself to it, she could even remember the specifics, like how she had been impressed by his eloquence and the competence of his bearing--even when his parentage had been publicly mocked. In truth, she had been more focused on Wei Wuxian behaving at the time--to her shame. She had known it was wrong even while it happened, could have said something, anything at all. 

At least she would, now.

Turning to smooth her hand down his cheek to soothe his ruffled feathers over Nie Huaisang’s neglect and difficult memories, she catches sight of A-Xian charging up the hill with fiendish purpose under the rolling shadow of a cloud. He canons into A-Cheng like a vaguely sweaty firework without slowing.

A-Cheng squawks in disgust as it bowls them both over into the grass and the two of them begin to scuffle about it. A-Xian pants, “Shijie, I don’t think your husband has ever shot a bow before! Ow! You shit!”

A-Cheng sits, grinning and triumphant, on the back of Xianxian’s shoulders, digging his brother’s face into the grass and dirt. But just for a second or two, before he is flipped off and pinned, until he is shoved over and on and on, growling insults and play threats at each other like wrestling puppies. Eventually, laughing, Yanli stands and tugs A-Xian’s arm from the writhing pile, more of a hint than actually physically intervening. But he obediently heaves himself up, sweating, panting, and grinning, all harder than before. A-Cheng gives him a faux-surly punch in the side in retaliation and it very nearly starts the whole thing over again until Yanli firmly puts herself between them with a grin, brushing grass clumps from their hair and clothes. “Honestly, you two! I don’t envy the laundry women, just look what you’ve done to your robes. I should make you two clean them!” A-Cheng at least pretends to look halfway chastised while smiling, but A-Xian just looks proud. That is, until she continues, “And I hope you didn’t embarrass A-Yao about it. You know he wasn’t raised with the same training we were.”

At this, he cocks her an half pout, tucking his chin down and sticking his lip out. “Shijieee, all I said was that he must be worried he couldn’t beat our youngest shidi because he wouldn’t even try. Then he started ignoring me!”

A-Cheng rolls his eyes and tuts, loudly, before saying, “You asshole,” just as Yanli sighs.

Shaking her head, she tilts it in gentle scolding. “Maybe because you compared him to an 8 year old? Xianxian. You have to be careful; you know what people say about him. He needs to be safe, here. Where did you leave him?”

“Oh, he’s still down there, organizing clean up. He wasn’t offended--unlike some people,” here, he shoves at A-Cheng’s shoulder, who elbows him back. “Just the usual smiley Lianfang-zun. You know how he is, shijie, he doesn’t get upset over stuff like that.”

He’s always smiling, that doesn’t mean anything, Xianxian. You of all people would understand that. Yanli raises an eyebrow, gentle but not smiling. His childish act mellows behind his dirt smudged face and he looks away, pouting for real and rubbing his nose. “Sorry, shijie,” he mutters. 

“Mm, it’s not me you have to apologize to, A-Xian. It’s about time for you to organize cleanup now, don’t you think?”

He heaves a dramatic sigh, but grudgingly nods before perching on the edge of the bluff, shouting down through cupped hands. “Jin-gege-e-e, your wife wants you!” When he turns around, he points at A-Cheng nonchalantly. “You’re helping.”

“Oh, am I?” A-Cheng smirks, folding his arms and puffing up, very clearly preparing to pull rank.

“Uh, yeah, if you want this back!” Suddenly, A-Xian spins and sprints down the hill, holding his fist up over his shoulder.

“Wei Wuxian! What’d you take?! Hey! Stop!” 

As he pelts down the hill after him, Yanli has to laugh because, in the second before he had run, A-Xian had had nothing in his hands at all. For a moment, in this new peace, she closes her eyes and folds her hands over her belly, savoring the sun shining warm--almost hot--on the top of her head and the playful shouts of her brothers and the disciples below. Then, she hears footsteps. When she opens her eyes, she sees A-Yao making his steady way up the hill, his face pleasantly blank. The closer he gets, however, his eyes warm and the edges of him soften until he is here, reaching out and taking her hands. “A-Li? What do you need?” He smells like grass and water and sun.

“Was A-Xian being terrible again?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh no, he’s just being Wei Wuxian. You look flushed--shall I walk you back?” 

But day by day she is learning each of his little lies and she recognizes this as one of them. Strangely, as the weeks go by, the masks he wears have been bothering her less and less; partially because she is beginning to understand that they are protection for him. Like armor or clothing--he would feel naked without them. If she can still tell what he wants, if she can still peek under them, she is more than happy not to pry them from him when he still needs their safety. (Of course she wishes he didn’t feel like he needs them in their home, with the people who would be his family, if he let them. But, like growing seeds or proving dough, these things take time and that, they certainly have.) He is becoming less of an impenetrable fortress and more of a foreign land that she can more easily navigate as she learns the language. It allows her to leave these smiles hung up like beautiful paintings she can name. Underneath this, he is tense and displeased; his smile-curved eyes opaque, his jaw holding tension. This one is Humiliation.

Twining her arms around his trim waist, she thrills in that wanted way she does every time he lets her hold him before she tucks her cheek to his to murmur, “I told him not to tease like that. I know it hurts you.” While she may have become more inclined to leave him his shields when he puts them up against her, she can’t help but talk around it, just a little. She cares less about the hiding and more about the fact that he suffers.

“...It’s fine.” He says nothing more, but his hands move to hold her back, one smoothing up between her shoulder blades as his face tips down against her neck, nose and eyelashes pressing. Not a talking problem, then. So she rocks, a bit, from her ankles to her hips, swaying them both slowly together in the rustling breeze with something like playfulness and something like comfort. “What are you doing, this afternoon?” She asks the air behind him, eyes cast to the wisping clouds passing slowly across the sky.

“Mm, I had planned to organize a list of new merchants in the area for Jiang Wanyin. Is there something you need me to do instead?"

"Is it urgent?"

"Not that I saw. Why, A-Li?"

"I was going to make dumplings tonight and I would love it if you joined me. If you want," she adds, diffidently. “I made the dough this morning.”

He startles, a little, and draws back, looking genuinely surprised. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then smiles warmly. “I’d be delighted.” 

The sincerity of that smile makes her grin and she bounces a little on her toes--and he laughs. Clearly, he's pleased she wants to spend time with him. And she's pleased that he's pleased. And he seems to be pleased that she's pleased that he's pleased and around and around they go--it might have been embarrassing if it weren’t so fun.

It turns out that he’s as quick a study at being a kitchen hand as he is at anything else he does; he absorbs her instructions thoughtfully and works diligently, his noon-sky blue sleeves patterned with little whirls of teal tied back with a simple strip of cloth as he chops up the chives and garlic and ginger. His knife strokes are as rhythmic and sure as the kitchen is hot, with little wisps of breeze edging around the wet billows of spices and green and cooking pork. “You are so much easier to work with than Xianxian,” she tells him from down the smooth, sunbathed counter where she’s perched on a stool, rolling out the rounds of dough. “I love him dearly, but he tries to put absolutely everything in his mouth, even now.”

A tiny smile picks at the corner of his concentration tight lips. Then, with a flick of an eye to see if she’s watching, he wordlessly pops a little shred of ginger into his mouth from the neat pile he has made. “You!” Yanli gasps in delighted outrage at his audacity and leans over to ineffectually tap at the counter near his elbow--she can’t quite reach him, sitting down.

At this, he laughs outright and offers his wrist out, knife blade carefully angled away . She gives the back of his wrist a playful little swipe with her fingertips, leaving streaks of flour. “I thought I would make it a little more familiar for you,” he says, by way of excuse. “More what you’re used to.”

“Absolutely incorrigible,” she replies, fondly, righting herself again.

Here in the kitchen, where she has history and proficiency--where she is master--it’s as easy as anything to tease and tend with absolutely no worry at all. She isn’t agonizing if she is providing enough or saying the right things, because she knows exactly what must be done when, and he is masterful at following directions the very first time she gives them. Conversation is light and inconsequential around her instructions, and she is able to conserve her energy staying seated on the stool, maneuvering him about the kitchen as her arms with little guilt at all.

 In what feels like no time, they sit beside each other at the floured, bowl littered counter; bowls of filling, of water, of flour. Their shoulders brush. “So you wet the edge like this, because the dough isn’t completely fresh anymore--”

“Mn.”

“And you spoon in about this much--not much more or it will burst in the pan.”

“This much?”

“A little more, I think. Perfect! Then, like this. Then you fold the sides.”

“Too much?”

“Mmn, next time it can be a little tighter, but that’s good for your first one! Pinch it and--beautiful!” She pauses a moment to savor the look of her husband with flour speckling his quick, capable hands and lean forearms, seriously contemplating the dumpling. “You’re a natural.”

The withdrawing he had done behind his shields that morning is nowhere in sight when he looks over at her with unmistakable pride in his bright eyes. “Well, I have a wonderful teacher.”

She bites her grin back and waves the compliments away, laying out the next wrapper in front of her. “Oh, you.”

“Where did you learn the art of food?”

“Liu-popo, one of our cooks! I think I first got interested because I was sick for a lot of my childhood and she always made me the most wonderful meals. And when we found out about my heart and my health...well….” Mother stopped pushing once she realized Yanli would never be able to keep up with the training of the other disciples because there was no way for her to improve. No way for her to contribute to the Clan in a meaningful way. “I had a lot more free time. My room was by the kitchens, and I have always loved the smells and the bustle of it all. The more I was there, the more Liu-popo would let me mix things, tell me how they worked and what flavors went together. At dinner, seeing people eat what I made...knowing I did that, knowing I made them happy and full…it felt good.” She gives a little smile and glances at him. “And there's so many things you can do once you understand the basics, too. You can experiment and make new dishes!”

He wets the edge of his next dough wrapper and says, conversationally, “Like Wei Wuxian and his talisman inventions.”

This startles a laugh out of her and sparks from her dangling earrings in the sun dance off the warm gold glow reflected from their bodies onto the wall around the window. “Oh, no, it’s nothing special.”

“Really? I think it’s very similar. You’re perfecting something and helping people. Bringing them together and taking care of them, feeding their bodies and keeping them strong? That’s just as important.”

She hesitates and looks out the window. She never thought of it that way. The lotuses are pearly and bobbing in the bright breeze, their heady scent sneaking in light and fragrant under the punch of the spices. Their brilliance under the sun leaves dazzling green after images when she blinks. “Do you think so?” Assigning that much importance to it seems borderline ridiculous--what she does and what her brothers do is hardly comparable at all. She struggles to make herself useful while they blaze their way through the world, changing it with their will and sword edges. They are proper cultivators, proper warriors.

There is a pause, then a gentle hand lays over her wrist, slightly gritty from the flour coating his palm. “If you had asked me what I would have preferred when I was in the Scorching Sun Palace--a talisman or a warm meal from someone who--” it feels like he swallows a word back here, smoothly substituting, “cares, I know which I would have chosen. Without question.”

Even this feels like a kind exaggeration designed to make her feel better--soup instead of life saving magic? But this little rare little bauble of personal experience he was handing her was something more important than soothing her pride, so she smiles over at him. “You’re very sweet. But what about you? You’re a natural! Did your niang teach you how to cook?”

At this, his face slides from serious earnest to pleasant veneer and, with a spike of cold anxiety, she fears she has put her hand on a door that she thought she was being invited into, only to find it forbidden. But he merely turns back to spooning in the pork filling and says, lightly. “I’m sure she knew how--she was well educated in most things. But we didn’t tend to frequent the kitchens.” There is a silence she fears is the end of this particularly enticing thread. But then, eyes still on the pre-dumpling, he says, “She taught me other things, though. How to read and write. Proper etiquette. The basics of a guqin….”

There is a pause, and this feels almost uncertain, him tilting on his toes on the precipice of a step she desperately wants him to take, so she hazards, “Like Lan-zongzhu.”

A smile, small and fond, before he forces it brighter at his hands, efficiently twisting the little peaks. “Just like. He’s had more formal training, of course, but she was able to play quite well.”

Yanli knows some of this, of course. His mother had been famous for how educated she was despite her occupation--the refined courtesan of Yunping. But that’s not who she had been to A-Yao. She had been his mother. “She was a very talented woman.”

“Yes.”

“You loved her very much.”

Softer, smile greying; “Yes.”

A silence stretches, a bird outside trilling to accentuate it, so she says, quietly. “I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about her, A-Yao. I didn’t mean to pry.”

That smile hikes wider and he looks over at her, where she can see in full the raw tension that hides just barely underneath and she wants to shower him with praise and thanks for the gift that it is. “You’re my wife, A-Li. There’s no prying; you can ask me anything you want to know.”

Mmhm, she thinks, I can ask, but you won't necessarily answer. What clever wording; sneaky. No need to push. Just like with A-Xian, she will let him take the time he needs to tell her what's wrong. As long as he knows she is always there to listen. “Well, I love hearing about her….” Then shyly, she adds. “Would she have liked me?

When his face softens completely, there is something in the corners of his mouth that makes her think of tears, though there’s no trace of it anywhere else. His voice is low when he says, “She would have adored you.”

She reaches out and touches his cheek with her flour coated hand, crumbling a swath of white up to his cheekbone. The way he’s looking at her is almost like yearning in his eyes, searching and wanting, even though she is right here, right with him, staying. A warmth rushes in her chest. “I would have loved to have met her, A-Yao. She must have been amazing--and you honor her so well.” It's truth. Nothing but.

Little lines pierce where his dimples should lie and he swallows, blinks. “...I try,” he says in a voice she has never heard from him before; it’s small. Clotted and uncertain. His eyes widen and he stiffens, and she feels him tightening, receding--so she pretends she doesn’t see it, pretends that she doesn’t know that that had been a slip of vulnerability that scares him.

She takes away all pressure--her hand from his cheek, her gaze from his face--and turns away to fuss over another circle of dough. Sprinkling more flour on the counter, arranging everything just so in front of her as she smiles. “Well, you’ve proven to be a wonderful kitchen hand, so you should help me make dumplings for all the holidays, since you’re so good at it. New Years and Dongzhi and--oh, I should teach you the dances we do for the Dragon Boat Festival! I perform one every year for Lotus Pier, when I can. Or,” she straightens with realization. “Oh!” When she turns to him, he’s considering the dumpling he’s pinching with far more concentration than is warranted. “Oh, you grew up in Yunping! Do you know any?”

He clears his throat without looking up, smile uncomfortable. “I know a few. Quite a few. My mother taught me to dance because she didn’t know any martial arts to prepare me for cultivation outside some of the books she managed to find. But she knew starting me in a physical discipline young would help. I’m...adequate.”

Even more corners of her life she could tuck him into! More things she could share with him! A way to draw him from the shell he’s desperately trying to retreat back into! Excitedly, she twists on her stool, swiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, show me, please, I want to see!”

The tips of his ears redden adorably, and he winces. “I don’t...A-Li--”

There are not many things she will push him on, except on matters where he paints himself as unworthy, but this! This she absolutely has to see, here, just them, sharing the things that make them who they are under the kitchen counter in private. “Please, oh, please! I’ll even dance with you, if you don’t want to do it alone! We’ll go together!” She stands and shrugs her shoulders to free her arms some mobility from where her apron captures the joining of her sleeves, letting her hands rest on the air in delicate anticipation.

He’s startled into looking up at her, eyebrows pinching. His face is colored in embarrassed alarm. “I only ever performed alone, my partner dances aren’t--”

Performed! She could crow. And she will get that story in time, oh yes she will. “Then you choose! Whatever you want, I’ll follow you! Whatever you want, whatever!”

At this insistence, reluctantly, slowly, he stands, dusting off his hands before untying the cloth that keeps his sleeves back. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, to her utter rising delight he shrugs out of his heavier blue outer robe entirely to drape over the edge of the rack of unpeeled vegetables. It leaves him in 2 lighter, tighter layers of shades of plum and navy. The lack of patterns on the fabric simplifies his lines, rendering him limber and neat as he places his feet just so.

Immediately it is clear that he is not merely adequate, as he claimed. When he lifts his hands, the intent behind them shows someone who has had control of their body’s movements from a very young age and knows where every square inch of it is at all times--no less talented or powerful than those lifelong cultivators that she knows. He is watching her. She glows with the trust of it all and follows his first step. 

There is no music, and so she sees his quick tempo and meets it with a wordless, half remembered song, all ‘da da’s and breathless notes as they move. And they dance, wheeling tight in the modest space of the kitchen floor. The dance he chooses is, as he said, not usually a couple dance, but she knows it and mirrors him, light and lilting, stepping quick and smooth. Some of the sweeps of his arms and legs are the masculinized version of what she knows, so she reflects in compliment when she can--when the counters and bulbs of hanging garlic and strings of peppers don’t block her path. It’s amazing, it’s easy, it’s fun.

She watches his face flash pass during a turn--once, concentration; twice, surprise; thrice, realization. When he faces front, he looks tentatively pleased. 

She arches her back and kicks up her foot in a sharp arc in improvisation, grinning cheekily and that real, crooked grin of his is back, with something different, something--is that teasing? Arms spread like wings for balance, he responds in kind, but the arc of it is wider, higher, until, for a single moment, the billow of his robes is a flower blossom on the impossibly straight line of his legs, up and down. She whoops in undignified awe in the middle of a measure, abandoning the tune.

In the end, she bumps the corner table with her hip and teeters a moment, arms wheeling for balance even as she laughs. When he catches her wrist and pulls her back, Yanli collapses onto him, arms around his neck as she giggles, helplessly elated. Struggling back upright, she grabs his face in her palms and plants a quick, hard kiss on his lips. 

His fast breath tastes like ginger. 

They are both flushed and panting in the heat of the kitchen, wisps of humidity frazzled hair escaping their respective guan and pin. And they are both grinning. “You must perform with me,” she wheezes.

Breathlessly, he lets out a short laugh, smile going wryer but not disappearing. “Ah, I doubt anyone wants to see me.”

“I do!”

Again, he chuckles. “Then I’ll dance for you.”

He’ll dance for her! That golden bubbling is back in her chest, permeating the whole of her until she feels like sunlight. “Think about it at least?”

With an air of extreme indulgence that tells her that he has thought and has already decided, he nods, one dimple pressed in deep. She lets it go. Oh well, next year. 

He helps her sit because her lungs are tight and her legs going to jelly, but she is so helplessly pleased by him and the gifts he keeps giving her. So she kisses him again, because she likes to and she can, and feels his palms press her closer by her shoulder blades and feels so very very wanted.

[gravelyhumerus]

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter Seventeen

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Title: “I may just take your breath away”

Relationship: Jemily

Summary:

Exams, pizza, board games... what more could a girl ask for?

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr:  One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty

 “That was a lot of chess,” Emily complained, nearly chugging her latte as she and Spencer left the coffee shop. 

She pulled her beanie onto her head and braced herself for the snow as the taller boy held the door open for her. Emily almost slipped on the slushy tile floor on her way out but managed to keep her balance. 

“Fifteen of the multiple-choice questions to be precise,” Spencer replied. The salted sidewalk crunched under their feet as they made their way across campus. 

“I’m so glad it’s finally over,” she admitted. “I think I’ve had enough philosophy to last me a lifetime.” 

“I’m enrolled in ‘Minds and Machines’ next semester,” he said. “I think I might try and get a double minor this time around.”

“What’s the goal? Three PhDs by the time you’re 24?” Emily quipped. 

He was well on his way, having completed his engineering degree before she managed to graduate high school. He was 17, only two years younger than her, but somehow seemed like a kid. A kid with more education crammed into his brain than she could ever master in her life.

“Something like that,” he replied with a smile. His hair was getting long and he had tied it back during the exam. With last names starting with P and R, they were seated near each other in the large exam hall, and she glanced over at him as he fussed with his hair. 

They stopped at the red light, watching as the cars and busses wooshed past them, sending the slush flying into the snowbanks. It had been a fairly sunny day, but bitterly cold. Now, the sun was setting and the campus was bathed in a warm golden glow. The snow had fallen the night before, leaving fluffy white snow covering their campus. 

Emily had spent most of the day holed up in the library with Spencer, with him quizzing her on fallacies and philosophers. With his eidetic memory, he only really needed to read the material once. Earlier in the semester, she did feel useful when it came to editing each other’s essays. He always got bogged down with detail, word vomiting everything he knew, and she helped him with his structure and argumentation. 

More studying awaited her back in her room. She rubbed at the back of her neck as she thought about the upcoming evening spent hunched over her desk studying criminal justice, a subject that left her questioning her degree half the time as she was forced to learn about the muddled ethics of justice. 

That week, she had survived on minimal sleep, eating mostly bagels and coffee to sustain her. Her body was protesting with each step, and she had suffered from a constant tension headache for as long as she remembered. At least her college had that golden retriever walk around at the library yesterday, she thought to herself, sarcastically. Animal therapy definitely relieved all her stress. As if petting a dog for five minutes would fix the anxiety of finals season. 

Two more exams, she reminded herself. You’ll make it. 

Despite this mantra, Emily was conflicted. While finals were killing her, the end of the semester also meant winter break. Emily would be forced to go “home” for the holidays. For most college students, that meant going back to their respective towns and being surrounded by their loved ones. Emily, on the other hand, didn’t have anywhere she called home. Last winter break, her mom had at least been in DC, and Emily was able to catch up with some of her international school friends who were in the city. This time, her mom was stationed in London, and Emily knew she’d be roped back into her old life. She didn’t know anyone there and knew most of her break would be spent alone. 

The last place she had called home was Rome, and now that was tarnished by her complicated past with that city. 

Emily was good at being alone. Being an only child of a workaholic single mom meant she learned to keep her own company. She read a lot. She got good at running away, escaping her nannies, and skirting security in order to roam free. She’d be fine. 

The problem was that Emily had gotten used to this. She rarely spent a moment alone these days. Whether it was walking to class with Spencer, or Hotch, or Derek, getting lunch with the team, surprise coffee dates with Penelope and spending almost every evening with her girlfriend, she hadn’t been left alone in ages. She didn’t miss it. 

Their residence building had a warm yellow light shining out of the windows and a soft red brick facade. In the summer, ivy grew up the south facing side but in the winter, the ledges were covered in snow and the stone steps were slippery. She trudged forward, excited for the warm embrace of the dorm. 

Spencer had other plans. He reached into the garish yellow plastic newspaper box that was stationed next to their doorway and retrieved this week’s newspaper. 

“Come on Reid,” Emily said. “Just subscribe to the newsletter or something like the rest of us.”

He held up the cover to her in surprise. Usually it reported the news of a recent sports victory, or a change of policy announced by the administrators, or even a fun event held on campus. Sometimes there was even a dramatic protest or an important speaker coming to campus. But this week, the headline surprised her. In large font printed across the page read: “Multiple student politicians fired amid financial scandal.” 

“That sounds bad,” Emily said. It did seem way more dramatic on newsprint than on a website, so maybe Spencer was onto something with his affinity for the printed word. 

Grabbing a copy for herself, she then walked inside to escape the cold. Warm air greeted them as they entered their residence hall, and both students kicked the snow off their boots before trudging up the stairs. They read as they walked, but the route to their rooms was already muscle memory, so neither worried about stumbling on their way. 

Normally, Emily wouldn’t willingly touch this sort of student politics with a ten foot pole. Sure, she was involved with the Criminology council, but there was a difference between the kind of person interested in petitioning for better accessibility to faculty events or running a bake sale, and the kind of students to embezzle thousands of student dollars like what the current student government executive seemed to be accused of doing. 

She quickly ran her eyes down the page, the contents jogging a memory from Halloween, of Hotch and JJ discussing the early stirrings of said scandal. 

“You know,” Spencer said, “I’m surprised they got a lot of this information, it’s notoriously difficult to file FOIAs for student governments, as they’re technically private corporations. So the fact that they got these files means that this is a much bigger scandal than one might assume.”

Corruption, bribery, embezzlement, nepotism. All words that jogged memories of hiding in the corner of political fundraisers, overhearing the worst of politics from too-drunk elites sipping on their wine and munching on charcuterie. 

“I hate politics,” Emily said, stuffing her copy of the paper into her bag. 

“I find it interesting. It’s basically a microcosm of our current political climate. In fact, I have subscribed to the print edition of fifteen student papers in the region,” Spencer said, “I like to keep informed on the coverage of student issues, and compare them to our own.”

“Why?!” Emily said with a laugh. “You know you can just look them up online.”

Spencer gave her a withering look, and she should have known better than asking about his aversion to tech. He loathed having to use his computer, as the LCD screens apparently gave him a headache. Penelope even gave him a pair of blue light glasses to attempt to alleviate the issue.

Then, he began to speak, at length, about the dying printed news industry and why print copies were better for understanding than screens et cetera. She made sure to nod and hum at appropriate points, but her mind kept wandering. 

She wondered if her girlfriend was in her room. Emily missed her any time they were apart and she yearned to hold her in her arms once again. But she shouldn’t. She needed to work. She had too much to do. Her grades had slipped, slightly, this semester. Everyone warned her about how college would be harder than high school, but no one ever warned her how much the expectations were raised in second year. 

Two more exams. She clutched her coffee tighter. She’d rather do anything else besides study at this point. Her body was exhausted, her mind frazzled. She wondered if she could even manage to get through a chapter of revision before conking out on her desk. 

As she said goodbye to Spencer and struggled with her keys that were tangled up in their corresponding university-branded lanyard, JJ’s door opened.  

“Hey girlfriend,” JJ greeted her, sounding way too much like a straight girl greeting her platonic friend for Emily’s taste. She gave her a pass because it sounded cute in her voice. 

“JJ!” Emily said, somehow surprised to see her despite the fact that she lived right across the hall. Her girlfriend was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized sweater, with her straight hair tucked behind her ears and her face bare of make up. Her face was lit up with a smile, and Emily rushed towards her, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

“Hi JJ,” Spencer said as Emily and JJ kissed. 

When they pulled apart, JJ gave Spencer a smile as a greeting and asked them how their exam went. 

Spencer babbled about their Logic exams for a minute or two, as Emily basked in JJ’s presence. She grabbed onto her hand and found that it was so much hotter than her own and wasn’t sure if she held on tight because she was cold, or if she had missed her girlfriend. 

“I’m just glad it’s over,” Emily said. “I never want to hear about fallacies again.”

Spencer seemed to want to say something, but fell silent at Emily’s tired expression. 

“Wanna come in for a bit?” JJ whispered in Emily’s ear. Apparently she said so a touch too loud because Spencer replied instead. 

“Sure!” he said, and then walked into JJ and Penelope’s room. 

“I should really study,” Emily tried to argue, but a single glance into JJ’s deep, blue eyes had Emily melting. 

JJ’s room was much messier than Emily had last seen it. Both desks showed clear markers of the ongoing exams, with papers and books piled high. In addition to this was an assortment of pillows strewn all over the floor.

“You guys are back early!” JJ said, after checking her watch, “I thought it was a two hour exam?”

“I finished in an hour,” Spencer said, “and Emily only needed an extra half hour on top of my time.”

Damn straight, Emily thought, feeling somewhat competitive with the boy-genius despite herself. 

She really should study, but the prospect of seeing her girlfriend outweighed the desire to sit hunched over a textbook for another evening. 

Emily and Spencer kicked off their boots, placing them neatly on the mat by the door before peeling their jackets off and hanging them on the back of her door. Emily wasn’t sure if she liked winter. Whenever her mother was stationed in the Middle East she yearned for snow, but now that she was experiencing the Nor’easter for the first time, the desert sounded like a good time. 

“Well there goes my plan,” JJ said, blowing her hair out of her face with a puff of air.

Spencer flopped onto Penelope’s neatly-made bed, collapsing into the assortment of pink pillows while carefully keeping his take-away cup upright. Emily sat down next to JJ on her bed.

“Your plan?” Emily asked. 

“Yeah,” JJ said, sounding a bit shy. “I had this whole plan to make up a blanket fort here for you, and I would surprise you with it when you walked in.’”

JJ gestured with her hands at the mess. Blankets and pillows were strewn about, and a bundle of fairy lights were laying in the middle of the floor. 

“Then you came back early,” JJ concluded. “Spence, I thought you’d keep her occupied longer!”

“You didn’t tell me that,” he replied. Spencer looked quizzically at her, shrugged, then took another sip of his coffee.

“I just wanted us to have a cute date night,” JJ admitted. “I know you’re so stressed, and you deserve a break.” 

Emily grabbed her girlfriend’s moving hands and held them in her own. She felt overwhelmed. JJ was so… thoughtful. Caring. Attentive. So many things that were absolutely foreign to Emily. No one had ever tried to impress her like this. 

“It’s okay,” Emily said. “We don’t need anything special to have a cute date night. You’re cute enough.”

JJ gave Emily a goofy smile in response. 

“Okay,” JJ said. “If you say so.”

“You’re building a blanket fort?” Spencer asked. “I actually have some experience with blanket fort architecture.”

“You do?” JJ asked, raising her eyebrows skeptically.

“Of course,” he replied, seeming almost offended that she questioned him. “It sparked my interest in engineering. I wanted to overcome the problem of chair-tippage when it came to building the structure, so I devised a system of counter-weights that I found increased the structural integrity by 53%. My mom always told me that I could be an architect, but I thought the sciences better suited my intellect.”

“Oh?” Emily asked, genuinely interested. How would someone measure the structural integrity of a blanket fort? 

“Actually, I have some blueprints. Let me grab them,” he said, standing up and making a move for the door. 

“Of course you have blueprints,” JJ laughed. 

“I should probably go feed Gideon, anyway. I’ll be right back!” Spencer  said. Before closing the door behind him.

“Gideon?” Emily asked. 

“His fish,” JJ said, “the one he won at the fair. It’s named after his professor, I think.”

She shrugged. The kid was weird, they tended to just accept that. 

“I guess Spencer’s joining us on date night,” JJ said. “Sorry. I know you’re stressed and probably want to be studying, but I thought we’d order pizza and just have one night off. Just us. And Spencer.”

JJ planted a firm kiss on Emily’s lips, leaving her dazed and blushing. 

“Relaxing sounds perfect,” Emily said, pulling her girlfriend closer to her. “I can’t believe it’s already exams. This semester has flown by. Soon it’ll be winter break, and I won’t get to see you.”

“I can’t imagine you not being right across the hall,” JJ said. “Who will give me kisses when I want them?”

JJ kissed Emily, sucking on Emily’s bottom lip slightly before pulling apart to look at her. 

“I know you’re joking, but I hope you’re not kissing anybody else, no matter the circumstances.”

With that established, Emily pounced on her girlfriend, pushing her onto her bed and kissing her deeply. She intertwined her fingers in the blonde locks that were splayed out in a golden halo and breathed in deep, taking in the warm scent of the lilac candle that burnt on her night side table. 

All her worries melted away at JJ’s touch. Emily’s brain was filled with the feeling of JJ’s lips on hers, with her lithe form beneath her. Exams, student politics and thoughts of home were wiped away, and her stress faded into background noise. 

JJ’s pliant form writhed under Emily’s, her hands sneaking below Emily’s sweater and dancing over her back. They deepened the kiss until they were making out like teenagers in JJ’s dorm with the door still open a crack. 

This was how Spencer, accompanied by Derek, found them when they pushed open the door with blanket fort blueprints and bags of potato chips in hand. 

Spencer made a surprised noise, which made Emily aware of his return. She jumped up and pulled apart from JJ with a dark red blush gracing her cheeks. 

“Woah there ladies,” Derek said with a laugh. “Keep it in your pants!”

“Guys! I was gone for five minutes!” Spencer whined. 

Emily stood up awkwardly, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she watched JJ sit up and pat her hair down in a huff.

“Sorry,” Emily grumbled, not really meaning it. She would never be sorry for kissing JJ, but she was sorry for the awkwardness

“Pretty boy dragged me down the hall,” Derek said in explanation. He had Spencer’s rolled-up fort plans in his hand, and lightly smacked Emily’s head with it, making a comedic thwap noise as it made contact. “Hope you weren’t in the middle of something?”

“Only JJ’s legs,” Emily quipped to everyone’s surprise, even her own. JJ hit her jokingly and blushed. 

“Hey!” Derek laughed, “Let’s keep this PG!”

“You called?” The voice of Penelope Garcia—PG if you will—rang out from the hallway, and within seconds JJ’s room was filled with just about all their friends standing around in a slightly awkward silence: JJ, Emily, Spencer and Derek were joined by Penelope with Hotch in tow. 

The latter two of them had grown closer recently and walked into the room with white shopping bags with the walrus logo printed on the side, looking like they had just returned from out in the cold. Penelope and Hotch going thrifting together, that’s new! Emily thought to herself and decided to file the observation for later. The image of Hotch watching Penelope’s customary fashion show was enough to make her laugh under her breath. 

“We’re building a blanket fort,” Spencer announced, changing the subject to the task at hand. “Are you guys helping?”

“Oh you know I will, boy genius,” Penelope said with an excited smile. 

Emily looked over to her girlfriend. So much for date night.

———

Without much questioning about why they were building a blanket fort, the team got to work. In college, sometimes things just happened. Impromptu blanket forts were par the course. In their defense, any excuse to not spend the evening burying their heads in textbooks was a welcome reprieve. 

It started with just a few blankets draped in the space between JJ and Penelope’s beds, but with Spencer’s instruction, a verifiable architectural marvel began to take shape. 

While Emily knew that Penelope would be all gung ho for this sort of project, it was certainly amusing to see Hotch in his khakis and dress shirt crawling around on the floor like a child with the rest of them, tying off blankets and very seriously maneuvering the different parts of the structure. 

Sheets were draped here and there, tied together to form ceilings and walls. Two chairs stolen from the common room, loaded with backpacks on the seat for support acted as the entrance to the fort. 

While it was crawling space only, Emily had to note that there was a sense of awe when you emerged into the open space of the main fort-area. It was surprisingly big, fitting all six of them with ease. The key to the whole design was a curtain rod Hotch had stolen from the boys shower that lifted the roof up. 

The design was strangely reminiscent of Baroque architecture, which she was sure was due to Spencer’s designs. This was a fact that Emily kept to herself. She always tried to rein in the ‘I lived abroad’ conversation points so her childhood could remain under minimal scrutiny.

Emily’s exhaustion transformed into excitement as she relished the time hanging out with her friends. Music played from Penelope’s computer as they worked, they began to work as a cohesive group, each member doing their share. It was nice to do something besides sit at her desk and obsess over memorizing facts and statistics, or figuring out the proper argumentation for an essay on a subject. Making sure that a bunch of blankets didn’t crash onto them was treated with the utmost seriousness, and the whole group was focused with intense concentration at their own tasks. 

Spencer did, in fact, have literal sketches of blanket forts in his notebooks, but the details of which were fairly incomprehensible to her. While she believed that he did the math, his chicken scratch was just about indecipherable, and his drawing was little more than a few shapes on a page. Despite this, it was laid out on the centre of the dorm-room floor for them to reference. 

At one point, as Emily stood on JJ’s wheely chair, she feared that the fort had all come crashing down as she lost her balance and grabbed at the blankets to stop her fall before tumbling onto Derek with a yelp. 

“Sorry,” she muttered as she climbed back onto her feet and fought off the blanket that had wrapped her in a shroud. 

She flinched as she realized she had ruined it all, a pit forming in her stomach. She looked at her friends in concern, but instead of yelling at her for her mistake, or shunning her for ruining it for the rest of them, they smiled at her and helped her up.

“It’s okay!” Spencer said cheerfully. “I know exactly how to reinforce that wall.”

“You okay, Emily?” Hotch asked, righting the wheely chair as JJ fretted over her. 

“I’m good,” she answered, still confused as to why they weren’t mad at her. 

Instead of making a big deal over the set back, they went back to work. Soon, the fort filled out and it returned to its former glory. Arguably, better than it was because they had draped fairy lights throughout the inside, making the space glow with a warm orange light. 

Inside was filled with pillows and big enough for all of them to sit comfortably so it was a comfy lounge space. It was cozy and warm, the antithesis of the bitterly cold night air outside. 

“You know what?” Hotch said. “This is a damned good fort, Reid.” 

The group muttered in consensus. They all had piled into the space, and as the excitement wore off, Emily was wondering what happened next. What does one do in a blanket fort? She had vague memories of building one in her room, but she had just sat inside and read a book. 

“I hear the RA’s storage room has a ton of board games,” Penelope said. “They pull them out for socials and stuff.”

“That’s all well and good, but we’re not asking Strauss to let us in,” Derek argued. “I still think she thinks we were responsible for that fire alarm last week. She’s been giving me the evil eye ever since.”

“Who said we had to tell her?” Emily said. “We could just… borrow… them…”

“I mean, they are for us to use, anyway.” JJ’s eyes had a mischievous look in them as she looked at Emily.

“That is true,” Hotch said, the scowl that was usually a fixture on his face turning to a smirk. 

“That’s stealing, guys,” Spencer warned, as if they didn’t already know that. 

“We’ll give them back,” Emily said with a shrug. “Come on!”

Penelope led the way to a dark wooden door on the main floor, it was labelled simply “Storage,” but the computer science student assured them that it was where the RA’s stored all of their supplies.

“It’s locked,” Penelope huffed.

“Do you have a bobby pin?” Emily asked her in a hushed voice. She wouldn’t have gotten this far if she hadn’t learned how to pick simple door locks. She had trouble with deadbolts but a simple latch she could probably do within a couple of minutes.

The blonde pulled a hot pink bobby pin out of her perfectly curled hair. Emily snapped it into two, bending one end into a longer L-shape. Sticking that into the bottom of the lock and holding it in place, she used the other side to feel for the pins that held the lock in place. 

Emily could feel all eyes on her as she confidently knelt in front of the doorknob, the group keeping watch for her as she worked. No one questioned how or why Emily knew how to do this. She had her reasons. 

This definitely broke all sorts of residence rules and if they got caught, they knew they’d get into shit, but no one seemed to care that much. They just wouldn’t get caught. 

After a couple minutes, Emily’s hands began to sweat. What if she couldn’t do this anymore? She tried to centre herself. She had made it through infinitely more stressful situations in the past. It was the eyes of her friends on her that made her nervous. She was finally accepted by a group, and she desperately didn’t want to let them down. 

Then, it clicked, and she was able to turn the brass knob easily. Emily made a noise of excitement, got to her feet and yanked the door open. 

Instead of an empty storage closet, on the other side of the door was Erin Strauss, their RA, in a passionate embrace with David Rossi. Her shirt was unbuttoned and he was in the middle of sucking on her neck. 

“Dave?!” Hotch called out, startling the couple. 

Both groups stood stock-still, neither knowing what to say. While Emily had hid the bobby pins, she wasn’t sure who was in more trouble, them for breaking into the room or their RA for using the space for unofficial purposes. 

The room was small and cramped, with a pile of poster board mostly obscuring the one small window that lit the space. Strauss had been hoisted onto the desk, her legs straddling the other student. Emily could see a shelf filled with the board games stacked on the left side of the room, but they seemed unimportant at the moment. While Emily had known about their illicit love affair, she had never expected to see it in action. 

“Hey guys,” Rossi said after a moment, his unwavering confidence carrying on to this moment as he pulled apart from Strauss, who was furiously buttoning up her shirt and trying to sort herself out. 

“What are you all doing in here?” she demanded, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “This room’s meant for RA’s only.”

“Well,” Emily said, startled by her own audacity, “Dave isn’t an RA so…”

“We just came for some board games,” JJ said in her most diplomatic voice, despite clearly wanting to laugh at the situation, “then we’ll be off.”

“Take them and go,” the RA said in a strangled voice, her face beet-red and as she avoided eye contact like it was the plague. 

Clearly not as embarrassed as Strauss, Rossi simply smirked, collected a few board games into his arms off of the shelf, then deposited them into Emily’s arms. 

Realizing that given the circumstances, they couldn’t be picky with their choices, the stunned group thanked him then scurried away, back upstairs with their loot. The silence remained until they made it back to their floor, where they all burst into laughter.

“What on earth was that?!” Derek exclaimed. 

“Rossi and Strauss,” Spencer muttered. 

Emily and JJ made eye contact, remembering all those weeks ago when they had caught their friend emerging from the RA’s room down the hall in the middle of the night. They had known that Rossi and Strauss had hooked up that night, but had no idea that it was a whole relationship.

“I see it,” Hotch commented. “I mean, I don’t know your RA too well, but Rossi likes a woman with authority.”

Derek and Emily fake-gagged in an exaggerated manner at the comment. 

“I think I need to bleach my eyeballs after that display,” Emily muttered. 

“Ooo-kay!” JJ said, pointedly changing the subject. “It seems like we have most of the pieces to Clue… I think we could manage a game of that. We also have Scrabble, Yahtzee and Snakes and Ladders. Uh… also a pack of cards.”

“At least it’s not chess,” Emily said, thinking about her seemingly endless exam that afternoon. 

“Agreed,” Spencer said. 

“We do not have chess, no,” JJ said with a quizzical laugh. 

———

After ordering a couple of pizzas to the dorm, they all settled in to play a board game. After a few minutes of debate, they decided to play Clue (or Cluedo as Emily continuously referred to it as). The board was laid out: it was vintage, with a teal and yellow colour scheme and some scuffs and rips showing its age. In their blanket fort, they were seated in a circle, all secretly looking at their Clue cards.

“Can I be Professor Plum?” Spencer asked before they had even gotten the pieces out of the box. 

“Of course pretty boy,” Derek said, “I’ll take Mr. Green.”

“My sculpted god of thunder looks excellent in green,” Penelope flirted, choosing the white piece for herself. 

“Did you know that in the original version of Clue, Mr Green was a Reverend, but they changed his name for American audience because they believed that the American public would object to a parson as a murder suspect?”

“Good thing you’re on our trivia team, Reid,” Hotch replied.  

Emily was Miss Scarlet, of course, and was seated right next to JJ, who had chosen to portray Mrs. Peacock. Hotch claimed the remaining piece: Colonel Mustard.

Emily loved board games. Her nanny in France, who was a kindly elderly woman that Emily only knew as “Madame,” would play with her each Sunday after church. She has hazy memories from that time, but the warm glow of sunlight streaming into their Parisian apartment as she learned how to play Cluedo. Emily would always try to cheat, but knew better than to try to do so with her immensely observant girlfriend seated to her left, JJ’s hand resting casually on Emily’s thigh.

She looked at her cards and grinned. She had been dealt her own character, she noted, as Miss Scarlet’s name was printed in bold on the top of her first card. It felt weirdly validating to know that she herself was innocent. Also in her hands were the cards for the candlestick and pistol, as well as the observatory. She marked these off of her card and tried to gauge her opponents' reactions. 

JJ was checking her phone with her cards face down, tracking the pizza’s arrival. Spencer was sprawled back, his long legs taking up way more room than was necessary, jotting down notes on some scrap paper. Presumably some statistics and probability for the possibilities of the cards that were sealed in the envelope in the centre of the board. Penelope smiled over at Derek and flirtatiously tried to sneak a peek at his hand. 

After the initial rounds being dedicated to moving around the board, Emily finally made it into her first room: the lounge. There, she decided on her first suggestion.

“I suggest,” Emily said, in her most dramatic, formal voice, which was particularly suited to the role of Miss Scarlet, “that Mrs. Peacock committed this heinous crime in the Lounge with-” she hurriedly grabbed the candlestick, “the candlestick!”

She knew that it wasn’t the correct weapon, but using it would narrow it down to someone ruling out either JJ’s character or the lounge as the scene of the crime. 

“Moi?!” JJ said, sounding almost offended at the accusation. “Your own girlfriend?!”

Emily grinned evilly at her, but internally she felt giddy. It was the first time she heard JJ use that word in front of their friends. JJ moved her piece into the Lounge. The others chuckled lightly at their antics.

“You have no alibi for the crime, Mrs. Peacock,” Emily said, “and I am merely making a suggestion.”

JJ glared at her, but said nothing. Emily turned to Derek, who was seated at her left. 

“What do I do?” Derek asked, looking around the room, slightly confused. 

“Do you have any of those cards?” Hotch asked. 

“Yeah-” Derek said, moving to show his hand. 

“No!” Penelope stopped him. “Just show one of your cards to Emily if you can prove her suggestion was wrong.”

He made an “o” with his mouth and sneakily showed Emily the Lounge card. Emily noted that, and that it was Derek’s card. Mrs. Peacock had yet to be proven innocent, and Emily gave JJ a suspicious glance. 

She loved this game. 

As the game progressed, Emily noted a few things about her opponents. A part of Emily was profiling her friends subconsciously, reading each of their strategies like a book. 

Penelope always seemed to luck out on her dice rolls, covering a lot of terrain and gathering information like it was a cup of tea. But, she seemed to take it personally when someone accused Mrs. White of having killed Mr. Boddy and gasped every time someone made that suggestion. 

Hotch seemed to take the game very seriously, and was at it like he was an actual police officer solving crime. But, it didn’t seem that he completely understood all of the rules, and definitely hadn’t played before, so he spent most of his turn grumbling as he skimmed the rule pamphlet. 

Spencer, on the other hand, had memorized the rules, common strategies and probabilities of the different outcomes, so Hotch often looked over to him nervously as the boy wrote longhand equations in the notebook that he pulled out of his bag for the very occasion. 

Derek also had never played before, and regularly made ‘accusations’ rather than ‘suggestions’ when he entered a room, frustrating Spencer to no end. But, Derek was smart and seemed to be picking it up as he went along. That was until he made the same suggestion twice in a row, both times making Hotch show him the exact same card. He asked Reid endless questions about specific rules, and more than once he made the boy double check in the rule book when Derek tried to make a rather unorthodox move. 

JJ seemed to be the only one genuinely trying to have fun. She munched on the Cheetos that she stored in the bottom drawer of her night stand, and made conversation. Her strategy seemed to be exclusively focused on playing the game like it was the 1985 feature film Clue, playing the role of Mrs. Peacock with a fake accent and treating it like an actual murder-filled dinner party.

After a solid twenty minutes of gameplay, the pizza arrived. With minimal grumbling from Hotch, who was apparently on a roll, they took a break to eat. 

“Did you see this?” Spencer said with his mouth full, lifting up the copy of the newspaper that he had grabbed earlier.

“Don’t get me started,” JJ grumbled and took a sip of her pop. 

“What happened?” Hotch asked, the conversation piquing his interest. 

Spencer explained—with the assistance of JJ who apparently knew one of the people involved through soccer—the entire scandal. Apparently, last year there had been very little interest in the leadership roles, so the President of the student government had simply waltzed into his role. He then hired all of his friends, his girlfriend, his roommate, and together they embezzled thousands of dollars of student funds. 

“I can’t believe they’re getting away with this,” JJ muttered. “Is there no oversight?”

“It’s always the same,” Emily replied. “Who’s going to oversee them? The college? They’re corrupt too.”

“This sucks,” Derek said. “Wish someone good would run for government, for once.”

Emily shook her head in frustration. It all just reminded her of her childhood. Embezzlement, corruption and nepotism all were casual topics discussed over family dinner in her home. She had higher hopes for students her own age, would they not break the cycle? Or was it just a microcosm of the outside world? 

“You should run Mr. Lawyer Man,” Penelope teased Hotch. “You could take any of these clowns.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow at her and went back to his pizza, brushing her off. Emily smiled at him. Penelope was right, he might actually do a good job if he set his mind to it. 

The people that surrounded her now were nothing like her mother’s friends—or the kids she had been forced to hang out with when she was younger—they were genuinely kind, supportive, and seemed to like Emily for Emily. When she told them she was an ambassador’s daughter, they had been more concerned with the cool places that she had been able to travel to than whatever power she had. At college, Emily finally exhaled fully, slowly relaxing more and more into herself. 

But, the topic of politics always set her on edge, especially since the semester was ending soon. Her mother had already begun to leave her voicemails about the galas, fundraisers and events that she was required to attend over Christmas break. She pushed thoughts of the future aside and focused on the warmth that surrounded her. With some music playing softly (a song that JJ liked by Vampire Weekend), the softness of blankets under her, and JJ leaning on her slightly as she ate her dinner, Emily felt at peace. She knew she could handle winter break, because she knew that these friends would be here when she came back. 

After years of leaving a school midway through the year only to show up to some new boarding school or international school each time her mom was reassigned, Emily never had a chance to put down roots. But, with each bite of pizza, Emily felt herself becoming even more firmly rooted. Not to this place, but to these people as their lives became more entwined. 

Once dinner was over, the game continued, and thoughts of politics left their minds. By then, Emily narrowed it down to the weapon (the candlestick), two rooms (the kitchen and the billiard room) and she was pretty sure that it was Colonel Mustard that had committed the crime. 

She had a decision to make: walk all the way from the study to the billiard room, or risk being wrong by making an accusation. She was pretty sure both Hotch and Reid were on the right track, as the younger boy’s scribbling in his notebook had gotten even more intense and the older boy was beginning to look around suspiciously, as if the others were trying to read his notes. 

She had pretty much ruled out Penelope, JJ and Derek as competitors, as the trio spent most of the time talking, and genuinely trying to have fun. Emily, Reid and Hotch were all way too into it, but Emily was competitive and this was her game. She wasn’t going to lose to Hotch, no way. Reid winning she could blame on his boy-genius nature, but Emily decided that Hotch was going down. 

The two boys seemed to have come to the same conclusion, all eyeing each other across the board, the tension palatable between them as their competition became heated. 

She nervously tried to move to the billiards room, deciding to play it safe. Better safe than disqualified. But, as soon as she made that decision, she regretted it as Spencer straightened up on his turn and said: “I’d like to make my accusation.”

“Write it down,” JJ prompted, as per the rules. He jotted it down in his paper. 

Then, with bated breath, they watched as he grabbed the envelope out of the centre of the board, and read the cards. His face fell when he saw one of the cards, so he must have been wrong. He placed them back into their envelope and back onto the board. 

“No dice?” Emily asked. 

He shook his head. 

“Statistically speaking that should have been right,” he grumbled. “My math was wrong.”

“Boy genius isn’t a good detective, huh?” Penelope mused. 

A few turns went by, with Derek, Penelope, and JJ moving around the board or making suggestions. 

Emily rolled the dice, making one square from a room. She sighed. She’d make a suggestion next round. 

On Hotch’s next turn, he made an accusation, which he wrote down on a pink sticky note that Penelope had handed out when the game started. He checked the envelope. 

Emily held her breath. She was sure he had it and that the game was over. She should just call it quits now. She went to bite her nails out of stress, but stopped herself, they were starting to get long and she wanted them to look nice. 

A moment passed as Hotch compared his cards. After he saw the third card in the envelope, his expression revealed that was also wrong. 

Boys, Emily thought. Always so overconfident. 

She made a suggestion instead of risking it: “Miss Scarlet—er myself I guess— in the Billiards Room with the pistol.” 

It was a gamble. If she was right, and the people who knew she had her own card and the pistol caught on, they would also know that it was the Billiard Room, because no one would be able to disprove her theory. If she was wrong, someone would have the card for that room, and she would know that the crime occured in the Kitchen. 

The second seemed to be true, as Derek showed her his card with a small illustrated image of the Billiard Room on it. She was right. She knew what it was. But, she would have to wait until her next turn. She was going to win. 

But, it was she who was overconfident, because as she was too busy preemptively celebrating her win, Derek casually made his accusation. 

“Hey I’m right!” he exclaimed, holding up the cards and his own hot pink sticky note. 

In his semi-cursive scrawl read: “Colonel Mustard, Candlestick, Kitchen.” These guesses matched the cards hidden in the envelope, and Emily’s own deduction that she planned to make on her own turn. 

“You guys really thought I hadn’t played this game before?” Derek laughed. “I’ve got two sisters, board games were everything.”

“Were you hustling us, Morgan?” Spencer demanded. 

He smirked. 

“Should’ve put money on the outcome,” Derek said with a laugh. “I’d be rich.” 

Emily threw her cards onto the table in defeat. JJ shot her an empathetic look, and Emily tried to stuff her frustration down to pat her friend on the back for the surprising win. He deserved it.

———

After the game concluded and the pizza had been completely eaten, the group parted ways, heading to bed, or for more midnight snacks or to finish up some studying, leaving JJ and Emily alone and to start? a game of Scrabble. 

The board was ancient, and quite a few letters were missing, but with music droning on JJ’s laptop, and the soft fairy lights overhead, neither girl minded too much. 

Emily looked at her letters:  O, B, S, O, T, B, W and thought hard, rearranging the wooden pieces to try and formulate a word. After a long day of academia, and investing so heavily into the game of Clue, she probably had only one or two working brain cells and both were telling her to play the word ‘boobs.’  

Her eyes flicked to her girlfriend, who looked absolutely gorgeous in the warm light. Her blonde hair almost glowed, and she had an adorable expression on her face. Emily couldn’t help but glance lower, thinking about the real world examples of her Scrabble word.  

She played the word with a cheeky grin. 

“‘Boobs,’ Emily?” JJ scolded. “Really?”

She sounded angry, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her cheeks and Emily could tell the girl found it funny. 

“I can’t help it,” Emily said. “I haven’t thought of much else since last weekend.”

She raised and lowered her eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, making JJ laugh and kick her lightly in protest. 

JJ then played the word ‘throw,’ using the ‘o’ from ‘boobs’ to form her word, earning her thirteen points. 

“I don’t think you can throw boobs, babe,” Emily said. “They’re usually attached.”

JJ rolled her eyes. 

Emily made it her mission to find the funniest words possible, working extra hard (and missing out on some good points) in an effort to make JJ laugh. ‘Armpit,’ ‘meaty,’ ‘hoagie,’ ‘urine,’ ‘joint’ and her piece de resistance: ‘boner.’ All while JJ was playing incredibly normal, and often strategic words like ‘axis,’ ‘snow,’ ‘vain,’ ‘snag’ and ‘writings,’ hitting multiple double- and triple word scores on the way. 

“This is fun,” Emily said, sneaking a handful of JJ’s Cheetos out of the family-sized bag next to the blonde, while she was distracted by playing her turn. 

“I don’t understand how you’re winning,” JJ muttered. 

Emily shrugged, “Guess I’m just a genius.”

“Reid? Is that you?” JJ joked. “Why are you disguised as my girlfriend?” 

“Would Reid do this?” Emily said, leaning over toward her girlfriend and pressing kisses all over her face until she fell back. Then Emily straddled her, their lips meeting in a passionate embrace that left both girls panting. 

“I would hope not!” JJ exclaimed with a laugh, making a face at the thought. 

They laughed and went back to making out, with Emily careful not to disturb the game pieces. JJ sucked onto Emily’s bottom lip, making her weak in the knees and she struggled to support herself over JJ’s shorter frame at the motion. 

“We should-” Emily tried to say between kisses, “finish the game.”

JJ kept deepening the kiss, going so far as to grab onto Emily’s butt to hold her in place on top of her.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Emily chided, “because I’m winning! I see right through your plot.” 

She sat up and went back to her tiles before playing another funny word: ‘suck’ for twenty points. JJ grumbled,fiddling with her own tiles, as Emily collected a few out of the bag. 

Emily was preening as she rearranged her own tiles and didn’t notice as JJ put down her word. When she went to play her next word (‘zap’) and only then did she see what word JJ played. 

‘Love.’ 

It was there. Clear as day. Written vertically and connected to the word ‘snow,’ it was unmistakable. Emily looked at it for a long moment, trying to figure out what it could possibly mean that her girlfriend very intentionally played such a loaded word. Was it the only word that fit? Did she only mean that she loved the snow? Was she also reading into it? 

Emily looked up, making eye contact with JJ. The blonde blushed and looked away, nervously fiddling with the necklace around her neck. Emily smiled faintly at the warmth that flooded through her, but alongside that, was the sharp pang of anxiety. Was she supposed to acknowledge that? Would that make it weird? 

‘Zap’ didn’t feel appropriate when her girlfriend may or may not have confessed her love for her. 

She played it anyway, deciding that making a big deal of it would just complicate matters. Besides, did she love JJ? She didn’t know. It was all so new. She liked JJ a lot. She definitely like-liked her in the traditional sense of the world. But Emily had never been in love before. She’d loved people before, Matthew for one, and her mother in a way, and she loved Derek like a brother. But being in love was a whole ‘nother ball game. 

JJ won the game after playing ‘equinox’ for twenty two points near the end, beating any lead Emily had gained from her silly words. JJ deserved it in the end, as the blonde would sit and stare at her letters until they formed the most complex words that Emily had never even heard of. Emily’s eyes drooped and she was barely able to create three letter words by the end, while JJ was still surprising her with her vocabulary. 

Emily shook JJ’s hand to congratulate her for the win. JJ grinned and kissed her. 

Then, they looked around and realized two things: it was past one in the morning and Penelope hadn’t come back to the room yet and that all of the blankets that JJ owned were currently being used in the blanket fort. 

“Can we sleep in my bed, tonight?” Emily asked. “I’ll help you clean up in the morning.” 

JJ nodded but was in the middle of texting Penelope, wondering where on earth her roommate had wandered off to. Within a minute she got back to JJ saying: with derek! will explain tmrw!! 😘 🧚‍♀️ 😳

JJ showed Emily the message and both girls giggled. Emily saw that coming, but didn’t realize it would be a game of Clue that finally sealed the deal.

Exhausted but happy and relaxed after the game night, Emily and JJ tumbled into Emily’s bed and cuddled up together. Between JJ and Emily, the word ‘love’ was left unsaid that night, but Emily fell asleep that night feeling a new warmth in her chest.

[trahottie]

Trahearne x F!Commander 

(Ao3) Ch 1 / ? - It is the eve of the Pact's final assault against Zhaitan. A morning unlike any other awaited them all and unspoken truths must be shared before it is too late. Marshal Trahearne and Commander Rhea struggle to reconcile with the meaning of their friendship as they realize they might never see each other ever again.

---

“You are dismissed. I no longer require your assistance for the rest of this evening.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Trahearne watched his guards walk away. When there was enough distance between them, he turned on his heels and walked towards the airship ports. He made sure his path avoided as much attention from the night shift workers as possible. 

It was past midnight, and the day’s duties were finally complete. At least as complete as they could be. There was never knowing whether you’ve done everything you possibly could have. Did you consider every single liability? Every single possible strategy? Was there something you have forgotten, overlooked, or simply didn’t think of? 

Enough, Trahearne thought to himself. All that was left was to trust in his comrades and pray that Balthazar's strength will be with them all.

He was off to reward himself with much-needed respite. Trahearne was a few steps away from the airship dock entrance when the assigned guard greeted him with a quick salute and pulled a lever to open the gates. 

“Thank you,” Trahearne said quietly, with a nod to the guard. 

He let out a deep sigh as he walked along the narrow metal platforms leading up to one of the airships. For some reason even just being a little removed from the rest of the Fort helped him gain clarity of mind. It helped him breathe. 

A few moments later he found himself at the tip of the Pact Glory’s bow. Whenever he could steal a few moments to himself, he would plant himself at whatever airship had the widest view of the ocean’s horizon. He heavily relied on this solitude to recharge his mind and body. 

This hour of the day didn’t provide much of a view. Not that it entirely mattered. It was the space and quietness that were most important. Trahearne gripped the hand railings of the bow and closed his eyes while slowing and deepening his breath. He let his consciousness drift deep within. 

When he felt the fringes of the Dream brush his mind, he let it swim deeper and faster until he began to recall the warmth of Mother’s light. Even though his vision was dark, it was as if he saw a glowing ember as well. He felt himself weigh a little less, as happy, distant memories of home began to trickle throughout his mind. It wasn’t long before Trahearne was deep within the ritual that helped protect his sanity for more than 20 years. 

Trahearne’s eyes wavered open. “Caithe.” Over the years, he had developed a sixth sense for his sister’s movements.

“Good evening, brother”. Caithe said. As usual, she spoke softly, as if it were half a whisper, and her smooth, melodic voice seemed to slither through the air. 

“How are you feeling?” Trahearne asked as he turned to face her while leaning against the railings. 

“You know how I feel,” she said plainly while ambling about the bow, “I’m prepared for the uncertainty that lies await. As I always have. All these years I wondered when I may resume my Wyld Hunt, and here I am…” she turned to face Trahearne, her expression nigh unreadable as always, “But I don’t know how you feel, Brother. Ever since the Pact’s formation, I hear less and less from your heart”. 

He sighed, and stared at his feet, “It can’t be helped. It is a challenge, separating my life as Marshal from my life as someone...well, as someone...” 

Caithe’s lips curled into a smirk, "As someone what?” 

Trahearne shrugged in exasperation. “I don’t know. Do you have an answer to such a question? You know what it is like living years and years, aimlessly grasping at your Wyld Hunt. After so long I've finally fulfilled mine, and yet here I am - still working, with the fate of the world resting on my command.” 

“Of course. That is a loaded question. I simply…” she huffed a sigh. “You know I am not one for emotional farewells. But, while we are able... let us talk. As we did in the Grove," she said as she beckoned him to walk beside her along the ship’s perimeter.

A warm smile graced Trahearne’s lips as he joined her, “Ah, yes. Home. It is incredible how much has happened over the past two decades... and how much you’ve grown, dear sister.” 

Caithe smiled one of her rare smiles. “You, as well. Who would’ve known our dear bookish scholar would one day lead an armada whilst wielding Caladbolg?”

He couldn’t resist a low chuckle. “I wonder at that fact every day”. 

In a sudden change of tone, Caithe turned to face the ocean with a forlorn gaze. "I sent a letter to Faolain," she said softly. 

"Faolain?" He asked with furrowed brows. "Even after all that you endured in the Twilight Arbor?"

"What can I say, brother," Caithe whispered with a helplessness that took him by surprise. "I can’t say I love her anymore, and I can say that I despise her for what she’s become and accomplished. But I might die tomorrow. For some reason I just needed to let her know. What we had between us is so deep and complicated, Trahearne…"

"Of course, I do not mean to judge," he said softly. "I only speak out of concern for your happiness. And please do not say things like that. I will see you, and we will return home to Mother together." Trahearne gently turned her to face him and held her hands.

"I know you do," Caithe said with a small smile, "and yes, I will believe that."

A moment passed between them.

"Happiness," she continued, contemplative. She withdrew her hands and instead held his. "What of yours? That is why I’ve come to you tonight, dear brother. Have you spoken to Rhea before she took to her quarters?" 

"The Commander? Well, yes, of course, we-"

"I mean truly. A conversation. Not an intelligence briefing."

Trahearne let his head sink. “No... it has not been possible.” His gaze slowly met Caithe’s. He knew his sister’s ways, and she pivoted the conversation with as much precision as she did with her knives. There was a part of him that knew what she was hinting towards, but he drowned it out. He didn’t want to believe it. 

“Trahearne. I know you. And I’ve come to know her. Please don’t try to lie or hide from me. Or Rhea. Now isn’t the time. ” 

He buried his face into his hands. “Caithe, what are you suggesting...” 

She took a step closer to him and spoke firmly, “Judging by your reaction, I am sure you know exactly what I am talking about.” 

“I can’t... I can’t talk about this right now.” His hands combed through his hair out of frustration. It felt like the world was going to slowly collapse around him. For some reason making countless life or death decisions at the head of an army could not cause as much anxiety as this conversation was able to.

“Pull yourself together, brother," Caithe said softly, "And please, look at me.” 

“By the Pale Tree, Caithe, after everything I’ve endured, if you can let me be cowardly at one thing, let it be this,” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

Caithe wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace. Trahearne tensed, taken aback by his sister’s rare and spectacular show of affection. He then felt his shoulders loosen. 

“Dear Brother... look at us. More than twenty years of fighting and struggling, and here, at last, we will fulfill our destiny. Do we not deserve our happiness? Can we not afford to be selfish for a little while?” She drew away and took his hands into her own. “For me... that part of my life has been tainted. Time will tell if I will recover and move on. But it is not too late for you, Trahearne.” She looked up at him with mournful eyes.

Trahearne gently withdrew from her and walked further down towards the tip of the bow. He chose another set of railings to lean over, shoulder hunched, head hanging. “If it was anyone else, I’d accuse them of playing a poor joke on me. But you," He looked at her helplessly, "how can you be so sure?” 

Caithe let out a soft chuckle. “You know, it is quite obvious to other persons beyond myself.” 

Trahearne felt his face drop. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Fear not, brother! At most, it is a playful rumor that has not affected your soldiers’ respect for you both. If anything, some enjoy it. Perhaps it's a reminder that life and happiness persist despite shadow and despair.”

He nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t believe any of this. Everything about it is... absurd. I’m at a loss, Caithe.” He turned to her, his face struck with helplessness. “You know how I am with these things.

“Talk to me," she said as she joined him at the bow. "What is so absurd?” 

He hunched over the railings once more, as if an endless list of items fell flat on his back with an insurmountable weight. “For one thing," he said, "She is of a noble human family. Caithe, can you imagine ?" He seethed with exasperation.

Caithe frowned, unimpressed with his first excuse. "And she left all of that to join the Vigil, become the Commander of the most important armada in Tyria, and has overcome the most supreme challenges this world could throw at a single person. You think she is one to be burdened by conventional appearances?" 

Trahearne rubbed his brow. His sister wasn't going to let him off easy. 

“It has always been..." he started more quietly, "... difficult to address this part of my life. Nearly every day of my life was devoted to this land of death, despair, and decay. What room do I have left for… for any of this?" 

“You have had relationships," Caithe offered. "And with non-sylvari no less."

“Relationships is not the word I would give those encounters,” he said, wincing with embarrassment.

“I stand corrected. But this is different. I don’t need to articulate that to you, do I?”

"No. You do not. She is…" The sheer thought of her left him breathless for a moment. What felt like an eon passed before he can utter the words that could only attempt to describe Rhea. “A force of nature."

It was the only phrase he could conjure to capture what he thought of her. From her ferocity to her grace. From the softness of her beauty to the roughness of her scars. And the boundlessness of her curiosity and care for others, all of which stunned him time and time again over the many months they spent with one another as each other's sole confidante. It all rushed over him like a towering wave in the Unending Ocean.

“And yet so much more,” he whispered before burying his face into his hands. What was he even saying right now? You’re a marshal now, Trahearne. Not some foolish sapling. “Oh, Caithe…”

"I know, brother," Caithe whispered as she gently wrapped her arms around him in a comforting hold. 

Trahearne returned her embrace as he lifted his mournful gaze towards the sky. His eyes followed the artful scatter of glittering stars until they fell upon the tallest parapets of Fort Trinity. He could tell a few of the lights in the bunkers were still turned on.

His lips parted as his chest twisted with longing for his dear friend. Was the Commander getting the rest that she needed? Or is she still awake? Is she afraid? Did she look to the ocean and the stars the way he did now, searching for some forsaken answer to the pain in his heart? How I wish I could be by your side to comfort you as I once did. 

His heart burned with bittersweet melancholy as he recalled the day they first met. 

 "I don't know what to do," she whispered, her breath shaken. "We were supposed to figure it out together. Forgal knew so much about the Risen. He promised we would never let it get this bad." Rhea gasped for air, as more tears threatened to choke her breath. "Now it's just me. We were supposed to do this together, I don't, I don't know what to do..."

Rhea's words trailed off as she hunched over the ship's railing. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly from the shudders of her suppressed tears. The sky never looked so dark as it did when the remaining survivors of Claw Island sailed towards Lions Arch in stunned silence. 

Nevertheless, Trahearne fixed his gaze unto the young woman, brimming with a conviction he had not felt for a long time. The image of the Warmaster sprinting forward past droves of screaming Lionguard and headfirst towards the massive Risen Dragon that toppled nearly half of Claw Island was seared into his mind. She was ablaze in a burst of lightning, its brightness nearly rivaling her stunning act of defiance. It was ferocious. It was breathtaking. When was the last time he saw someone fight so relentlessly despite such devastating odds? 

The calamity that was Orr and his Wyld Hunt long paralyzed Trahearne. Despite the confidence his colleagues held in his expertise, he could never escape how trapped he felt in his cycle of fatigue and uncertainty. He dared to admit he was resigned to a bitter, lonely lifetime of fruitless efforts. That was, until now. Suddenly, at this woman's side, the question of his future felt... different. Brighter, almost. The call to seize his Hunt burned with renewed vigor.

"Warmaster Rhea," Trahearne said firmly. "You can't do it alone. Because I won't allow you to." 

Rhea tensed, her glassy hardened gaze turning towards Trahearne's. 

"There is much I owe to Warmaster Forgal. The least I can do is stand by his protege and make sure she succeeds. And needless to say, I owe my life to the bravery you showed today." Trahearne held out his hand as a noble smile graced his lips. "Rhea, you can count on me to be by your side until Orr rises no more. You will never be alone."

 Trahearne's eyes closed, resigned to the truth of his painful feelings. He wanted nothing more than to rush towards her bunker and tell her what he truly thought of her before she left him and stepped foot onto that airship. But how ridiculous would that be? Not only did she need no further distractions tonight, but how might the Commander recoil that someone like him could feel for her the way that he did?

And how I wish you could be thinking of me the way I am thinking of you...

He couldn’t even entertain the possibility that she might never come back. No, he thought. By the Pale Tree, this mission must succeed. If not for Tyria, then at least for him.

---

[mrs-han]

Forever

@mrs-mc-han: Hiiiiii! Can I please please please request an MC who is super loud an extroverted! She doesn’t mean to or really even notice. she tends to yell when excited and use a lot of hand motions and laugh loudly. and she was never aware of it until she heard one of Jumin’s employees gossiping in the bathroom at C&R and goes to Jumin in tear apologizing for making him seem unprofessional. If you do this I will be so happy🥺🥺I love your work! Thank you💕

~~~

Gurrrl! I went through three different drafts because none of them felt right! But I finally settled on one! Here we go!

~~~

"Ow!! Don't -!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Jumin carefully sat you up, his hand on your lower back. "I added too much pressure this time... I'm sorry, darling."

"No, don't apologize, Jumy... it's so nice of you to help me to begin with," you smiled forcibly, gripping his hand.

"It wounds me to see you in so much pain," Jumin sighed, his fingers lightly trailing over your shoulder blades. "How long do you need to rest?"

"Six weeks," you moaned, turning and burying your sulky face against Jumin's neck. "Which is impossible, by the way. What am I supposed to do for six weeks!"

"Rest, obviously," Jumin jested, poking your cheek.

"... Rest, obviously," you imitated. "I mean! What else am I gonna do? Huh? What, I can't do anything except rest?"

"Calm down," Jumin cooed, winding his arms around you. "I'll tell you what. How do you feel about coming to work with me, hm? It's remote, quiet, and you can stay in my office."

"And do nothing?" You pouted.

"I have plenty of board and card games that will keep you busy. Or, you can bring your tablet and play the games you have on there. What do you say?"

"That sounds like... a reason for you to spy on me," you smirked.

Jumin batted his eyelashes. "So what if it is?"

"That sounds like a plan," you giggled, kissing his cheek. "To coming with you to the office, not to the spying."

"Drats," Jumin said stoically, lifting you from the couch and placing you on the bed. "Did you take your medication, love?"

"I did," you blushed, realizing for the millionth time how lucky you were to be reminded. "Come here, hubby. Cuddle close."

~~~

The height of C&R's structure never failed to frighten you. You stood dumbfounded as Jumin gathered your things and grabbed your hand.

"Are you all right?" He smiled, tightening his hold.

"Did you guys expand somehow? The building looks ten times larger than when I was here last!" You smiled, throwing your arm out and flinching shortly after. "Ow! Ow..."

"Be careful," Jumin uttered, rubbing your back. "The building hasn't gotten any bigger... it seems my proposal for cat tree extension has been denied."

"You made a proposal for a cat tree extension?!" You laughed.

"Oh, look. I'm going to be late. Let's go," Jumin mumbled hastily, leading you delicately to the inside of the building.

The sights and the interior sounds were more or less the same since you had last visited. Hurried footsteps and the sound of passes that approved access mixed with the familiar smell of citrus - your senses were overtaken and overwhelmed.

"Why do you look so shocked? You were here just last week," Jumin chuckled, easing you past the security booths.

Before you could respond, you heard a familiar pair of heels making a beeline towards you. You turned and glowed as Jaehee, folders in hand, stopped and bowed towards Jumin.

"Mr. Han -"

"Jaehee!!"

She straightened and smiled as you crashed against her, hugging her. She tucked her folder under her arm and gave you a reassuring pat. "How have you been, MC? All Mr. Han talks about is how you injured your back."

"Even during meetings?! Jumin, shame on you!"

Jumin turned his head, hiding his flushed expression.

"Don't be too hard on him. It's a rarity to see how much he cares for someone other than his cat," Jaehee quipped under her breath.

"We're going," Jumin blurted, grabbing your arm and leading you to one of the many elevators.

"Yes, Mr. Han," Jaehee said quickly, fixing her glasses and her posture.

~~~

"What happened to your office?!" You shouted.

Jumin pursed his lips and blinked quickly. "I felt the need to redecorate."

You rushed into the office and threw your arms open. "Jumin, there are pictures of me everywhere!! OW!!"

"Don't strain yourself by yelling, darling."

Jaehee quickly closed Jumin's office door behind her. "Forgive my sudden intrusion towards this heartwarming conversation, but Mr. Han?"

"Ah, yes. The meeting."

"Jumin, you are -"

"Silly? Adorable? Quite the catch?" Jumin crooned, massaging your back.

You faltered and wrapped your arms firmly around him, giggling as he peppered kisses to your face.

Jumin hummed gently, his fingers curling over and into your hair. "I'll be back, my love. And when I come back, I'll give you the massage you deserve. Don't miss me too much."

"Impossible. I miss you already if only you knew -"

"Mr. Han," Jaehee spoke more pointedly.

"All right, all right." Jumin sighed, the stars in his eyes now replaced by businesslike determination.

"Be strong, my brave man," you grinned.

Jumin grabbed your hand, planted a firm kiss on your palm, and turned quickly, lest Jaehee fire another warning. You closed the door and bit hard at your lip as you observed Jumin's gallery.

Photos of you sleeping, smiling, holding Elizabeth the Third - even pictures of the highly publicized wedding day - were scattered with the finesse Jumin naturally possessed.

"I love you so much, you silly man," you said under your breath, running your fingers over his desk and finally settling yourself on his seat.

You managed to keep yourself busy for half an hour, drawing hearts on Jumin's notepad and playing a round or two of virtual Uno. Boredom was a hell of a demon, so you figured there was no harm in walking around.

Opening the door to his office, you peeked your head through and slid out. You were greeted with polite smiles and inclined heads as you walked through the floor, making you feel... oddly uncomfortable. No doubt, everyone was polite to you because they knew who you were - if you were to make one complaint, Jumin would take immediate action.

But you pushed your suspicions of trivial matters aside and smiled widely towards the ostensibly friendly employees.

Your brows furrowed, and your shoulders tensed the longer you were outside of Jumin's office. You understood what Jumin meant; that feeling of suffocation seemed to hover over your person and only caused more stress to your back as you unconsciously hunched.

You traveled to the café, desirous for some breathing air - there had to be some sense of normalcy where people ate. Still, heads turned as soon as your footfalls could be heard, and more disturbingly flashy smiles were shined your way.

Cramped and in agony, you retreated quickly to the nearest restroom, rubbed your neck, and yanked your phone out.

Hey, honey! Are you almost done?

Jumin usually answered you immediately, but his response still hadn't come your way. Pushing a stall door open, you slumped into the toilet seat and continued to try to work the knot on your back.

"Jumin, shame on you ~!"

Laughter reverberated through the restroom, and you froze in place.

"She's so tacky!"

"And so loud. Could you hear her from accounting?"

"Yes! No offense to Mr. Han, but the least he can do is put her in her place."

"Ha, no offense to Mr. Han, but he chose poorly. My daughter would be a much better candidate."

"Isn't your daughter twelve?"

"Well, Mr. Han does seem to go after those with a... childlike... disposition!"

Earsplitting laughter echoed through the room, through your ears. You pulled your knees to your chest and brought your hand to your mouth to muffle any outbursts of emotion.

"Considering how serious he is, you would assume! That he would choose a practical, serious woman!"

"Where is she from, again?"

"America, from how she behaves."

"That explains the lack of discipline."

You closed your eyes.

"How long would you give them?"

"Six months."

"Ji-Yu! That is far too generous! I give them! Three months!"

"Ladies, ladies. She can't live in a world as glamorous as Mr. Han's. They will divorce as quickly as they met. A country bumpkin will always return to the landfill they came from."

"Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Are you paying?"

Another bought of laughter resounded... then, silence. You stood slowly, legs shaking and back aching more than it had that morning.

You went from wanting full transparency to wanting the false reassurance of superficiality.

"So stupid," you murmured.

~~~

"What's next on the agenda," Jumin demanded as he walked straight to his office.

"A meeting at 1430 with Amorepacific," Jaehee answered, easily keeping pace with her boss.

Jumin slid his sleeve up, checking his watch. "Good, I have time to eat lunch with my wife."

"Enjoy your time with her, Mr. Han, but please be in Boardroom D ten minutes before the meeting."

"Yes, yes, fine." Jumin pushed the door open and was greeted by your swollen red eyes and dripping nose.

"Welcome back," you sniffed, forcing a smile.

Jumin's nonchalant expression immediately shifted to one of anxiety. His brows creased, his eyes grew, and he flew to your side. "Darling, what... why are you crying?"

Your voice quivered. "Can I go home?"

"Talk to me," Jumin urged, grabbing your hands. "Is your back hurting you? Did anyone try to come in?"

"No, no... I just... I want to go home," you cried, pulling your hands from Jumin's and covering your face.

"All right... all right, darling," Jumin cooed, grabbing his phone from his back pocket. "I'm calling Driver Kim right now -"

"No," You blurted. "I want to go home. Where I came from."

Jumin paused... then quickly snapped into action, carefully grabbing your chin. "Speak to me. Darling? Why are you saying these things."

"Who am I kidding, Jumin? I can't... I'm not cut out for this life. I'm not cut out for you, you...! You deserve way better than me. You need a woman who's mature, demure, graceful... that isn't me, and you'd be much better off if -"

"Stop," Jumin boomed.

"You just told me to talk to you!" you babbled.

Jumin's anxious eyes eased. "Is that what this is about?"

You closed your eyes. "I heard a gaggle of women talking while I was hiding in the bathroom... Jumin, they're right."

"Are they?" Jumin asked.

"Well... yeah, I mean... they even attacked you, saying how interested you were in childlike women..."

Jumin wiped your tears with his thumbs. "Mmhm. Complete strangers weighing in on the depth of our relationship... it never occurred to me that I should take their opinions to heart."

You hiccupped. "All I'm saying, Jumin, is... I didn't realize how ridiculous I made you look... I didn't consider it."

"What is there to consider?" Jumin asked gently. "You would rather take their words to heart over how happy you make me when you smile? How fast you make my heart beat when I see how eager you are to explore different things? How, in a sea of millions, your eyes are the only ones I will ever look for?"

Your lip quivered.

"Others will have our opinions of us, but you will always be my wife. No matter what is said, I will always come to you. I want you to realize this, that you may finally lean on me... that you will irrevocably trust that my love for you is infinite.

"... Jumin!" You sobbed, tears streaming down your eyes. "You weren't supposed to make me cry more!"

Jumin roughly tugged you in and held you fiercely, kissing the top of your head. "No more talk of you leaving me... don't go anywhere. Stay by my side, and rest assured that I will stay by yours."

"Forever?" You squeaked.

"And ever," Jumin whispered vehemently. "Ah... your back -"

"Don't you dare pull away from me, Jumin," you half-joked.

"... Ha. I wouldn't dream of it, my dear. What do you say we grab some lunch, hm? Your choice."

"Sure... fifteen more minutes like this, first," you replied, your mouth pressed against Jumin's chest.

Jumin laughed and rested his cheek atop your head. "Excellent plan."

[ultimatetrashyfanfic]

Wooow, first time writing a fic for this fandom. I’m stupidly nervous. Also I only just finished SDR2 so I’m just gonna make this a Non-Despair AU in case there’s any big events in the next canon games I don’t know about yet. Plus i want everybody to be alive and well (chapter four hurt). This is also the first time in years I’ve written any fanfiction, so forgive me if I’m rusty. I do love this pairing. Can be taken romantically or platonic in this one (as this isn’t my only ship for Hajime so I tried to keep it ambiguous). - Circle

Also posted to AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/33332596

Warning: sickfic, descriptions of vomiting (I don’t go into much detail), nightmares/general anxiety.

Kazuichi was the only person Hajime knew with a worse sleep schedule than his own. For months he hadn’t realised - everybody had their own space on the island and Hajime was occupied enough with his own fatigue - but as Fuyuhiko saw how much Kazuichi grew to trust and confide in Hajime, he reported the issue.

“He’s like a fucking baby,” Fuyuhiko muttered bitterly. “If he gets tinkering on something he’ll be at it for days without sleeping. You gotta make sure he doesn’t overdo it. I can’t babysit that dumbass by myself.”

Hajime nodded, letting the insults sail over his head. Fuyuhiko may swear and yell and tell everyone over and over that Kazuichi and Hajime and Akane were the bane of his existence, but he was really the closest thing their group had to a mum friend.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Hajime promised. It was an easy enough job. At least it gave him something to do. Whenever Hajime found himself unable to sleep now, he’d go hunting for Kazuichi. More often than not he’d be at the airport, dismantling or building things as the mood struck him, and all Hajime had to do was hook his collar and ignore the whining as he dragged his friend away to bed.

But that night was different. Hajime could sense it the second he walked into the airport. Since the other students rarely went in there, Kazuichi had taken over the space, scattering bits of parts and machines in various stages of completion. But he wasn’t hunched over with a fiddly screwdriver or hidden underneath some big contraption with only his legs visible. He was sitting against a large machine, resting his head against the cool metal, his thumb rubbing at the motor oil embedded under his bitten fingernails.

That was concerning. Kazuichi was never still. He was forever biting his fingernails or twirling his wrench idly in his hands or messing with the pockets on his jumpsuit, dragging the zips up and down over and over. It used to drive Hajime mad, but after knowing Kazuichi for so long Hajime could recognise it as a nervous response and he knew not to complain about it.

Because kazuichi was fragile. Not physically - he could easily haul heavy engine parts around and didn’t buckle when Akane jumped on his back - but it was pretty easy to upset him. When Fuyuhiko had started mocking Kazuichi over his obsession with Sonia - “you gotta bully the shitty behaviours out of people, Hajime.” - it had led to Kazuichi knocking at Hajime’s cottage in the middle of the night, tearfully asking him why Fuyuhiko hated him.

Sometimes Hajime really wished they had an Ultimate Therapist on the island.

So now, looking across the abandoned airport to Kazuichi behaving in a very not-Kazuichi way, Hajime proceeded with caution. He made sure to step purposefully, his footsteps loud on the linoleum floor; he’d once surprised Kazuichi from behind and almost received a wrench to his temple… as well as a burst eardrum from the screaming.

Kazuichi looked up, hastily fumbling with his glasses and shoving them into his pocket. He hated anyone seeing him wear them, so Hajime knew not to comment.

Usually Kazuichi’s face brightened when he saw any of his friends, but now his smile was wary, reserved. “Hey, Hajime,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue.

“When was the last time you slept?” Hajime asked bluntly. “Or ate?”

Kazuichi turned back to face the hunk of metal beside him (unidentifiable to Hajime), though he still didn’t start tinkering. “Not hungry.”

“That doesn’t answer my question at all.”

“I slept yesterday. I think… It’s Monday, right?”

Hajime sighed heavily and hooked the collar of Kazuichi’s jumpsuit with his fingers. “Come on, get up. Bedtime. You’re not even doing anything.”

“Mmn. Can’t seem to focus tonight.”

“That’s because you’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

“Okay! Jeez, man, you’re acting like my mother,” Kazuichi whined, sounding more like himself.

The pair walked out into the cool night air together, Hajime taking hold of Kazuichi’s sleeve when he stumbled. Just how long had he been awake? He was acting like a zombie.

“Fuyuhiko said you weren’t sleeping,” Hajime grumbled. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“Fuyuhiko said it? So why did he make you come get me? Are you sure he doesn’t hate me?” Souda pressed.

“Yes, I’m sure. I told you, he was only harsh because he wanted you to leave poor Sonia alone.”

“Well. I have been, haven’t I?” he muttered.

Hajime assumed that was meant to be a rhetorical question, but it came out like Kazuichi was looking for reassurance. It hadn’t occurred to him how often Souda seemed to do that, as if he was worried anything he said would elicit a bad reaction.

“I’ve even been nice to Gundham,” Kazuichi said, much more irritably. “Though that’s a damn uphill battle, Hajime, I’m telling you. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about half the time.”

Hajime snorted. Watching Souda trying to interact with Gundham was becoming a running joke between the other students now. There was always a five second pause when Gundham finished talking before Kazuichi could reply, his face contorted as he hastily tried to translate.

“You’ll get used to Gundham. I didn’t understand him much at first either.” Hajime frowned as Kazuichi wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. “Are you cold?”

“I’m freezing. Maybe I do need to sleep better. I’m not feeling so good…” He stumbled again as they went across the uneven boardwalk to the cabins, bumping Hajime’s shoulder.

Hajime caught hold of him instinctively - then paused for a second. He quickly cupped both hands over Kazuichi’s cheeks.

“H-Hajime?!” Souda reeled back so fast he almost toppled right off the platform. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You have a fever, Kazuichi,” Hajime groaned. “You’re burning up. That’s why you don’t feel good.”

“I do?” Souda cupped his own cheeks contemplatively. “Huh. That makes sense. I couldn’t focus properly all evening.”

Hajime sighed heavily. Souda could be so oblivious at times it was hard to believe he was so talented with his machines. He seemed so much more confident when he spoke about that stuff. When he’d started getting closer to Kazuichi, Hajime once asked about some little mechanical toy Souda was making - and Souda’s face had just lit up. He talked Hajime’s ear off for a good fifteen minutes about every little piece of the toy and how it worked. Hajime didn’t understand the majority of it, but he always made sure to ask Kazuichi about his various projects after that. Souda was delighted every time, his words tripping over each other with excitement and his eyes shining like beacons. For a second Hajime wondered if that was how it felt to be Sonia.

“Well, you’d better come with me for now,” Hajime said. “I know you don’t have any first aid supplies in your cabin, and we don’t need Mikan to tell us you have some standard virus. I’ve got painkillers and fever reducers.” Hajime held onto Kazuichi by the elbow, guiding him along to the correct cabin. He seemed beyond argument. He flopped onto Hajime’s bed as soon as they went inside, curling onto his side and closing his eyes.

Hajime hovered over him, feeling a pang of anxiety. He wasn’t used to caring for any sick people except Nagito, and caring for Nagito was a wholly bizarre experience all around. Hajime had never seen anybody swing so wildly between self-deprecating, passive aggressive and strangely clingy when he was forced to babysit a sick Nagito. Hajime figured Kazuichi might fall into the clingy category.

Hajime grabbed fever reducers from the bathroom cabinet and went to crouch beside his bed, shaking Kazuichi’s shoulder. Maybe it was the fever or the several days without sleep, but Kazuichi already seemed to be breathing deeper. There was a red flush across both his cheekbones, garishly bright against his pink hair. Hajime checked his forehead again; it was burning.

“Hey, dude, wake up. You’ve gotta take some medicine and go back to your own cabin,” Hajime said, shaking Kazuichi’s shoulder harder. Kazuichi whined irritably, reaching out a clumsy hand without opening his eyes. He managed to find Hajime’s face and tried to shove him away weakly.

“Kazuichi!” Hajime caught hold of his wrist, sighing. “You have motor oil on your hands. Look, I don’t care if you don’t want to take medicine, but go sleep in your own cabin. This happens to be my bed.”

Kazuichi didn’t move, breathing deeply. Hajime wasn’t sure if he was actually sleeping or just ignoring him.

“I kissed Sonia,” Hajime lied.

No response. Hm. Maybe Kazuichi really was asleep.

Well, what was Hajime meant to do now? He didn’t feel mean enough to boot his sick friend off the bed. He supposed he could go stay in Souda’s room, but he didn’t know where his key was, and he didn’t want to go rifling through Kazuichi’s pockets for it while he was sleeping - and maybe Souda needed somebody with him in case his fever got worse. Fevers could turn nasty, right? Not that Hajime would be any use, but he could go get Mikan.

Sighing resignedly, Hajime went to the unoccupied side of his bed, lying back to back with Kazuichi. Most of the bedsheets were trapped under his sick companion no matter now Hajime yanked them, but Souda was so hot Hajime was soon uncomfortably warm. The sleeping boy was taking up a lot of the bed too; he had Kazuichi’s hair in his face and elbows jabbing his ribs no matter what sleeping position Hajime tried. He sighed again. “You’re an utter pain to deal with, Kazuichi,” he mumbled into his pillow. “You need to take care of yourself before you get really sick.”

Hajime, though sure he’d never be able to even doze in this situation, must have slept at some point, because he woke with a start to find the bed shaking so violently he almost toppled off it. In his drowsy state Hajime wondered for a second if the island had any seismic activity, but the earthquake seemed confined to the bed alone. He sat up and fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and turned to his sleeping friend.

Kazuichi was shaking violently, curled into a foetal position. His face had bleached several shades whiter and his fists were clenched tight, crumpling the bedsheets. His brow was furrowed and he made intermittent whines in the back of his throat, barely audible. Whatever dream was playing in his feverish head, it clearly wasn’t a pleasant one.

“Kazuichi,” Hajime called, shaking the sleeping man’s shoulder. Hajime could feel the heat radiating through Kazuichi’s clothes. “Come on, man, wake up.”

When he received no response, he shook harder, momentarily panicked. It was a mistake. Kazuichi jolted awake with a scream, the momentum sending him tumbling right off the bed onto the floor. He banged his head hard on the skirting board.

“Shit! Fuck, Souda, are you okay?” Hajime cried, hurrying over to Kazuichi. Souda scrambled backwards in a panic, clonking his head all over again when he hit the wall. His eyes hadn’t focused yet and he was breathing far too quickly. Hajime was starting to think he really should fetch Mikan.

“Kazuichi, it’s just me. Hajime. You know, your…” He paused, cringing. Only Kazuichi ever called them by that dumb name. “Your soul friend.”

Kazuichi looked up, locking eyes with Hajime. He didn’t stop shaking, but his breathing calmed slightly. For what felt like several minutes, both boys stared helplessly at each, unsure what to do or say. Souda swallowed thickly and finally whispered in a hoarse, rasping voice, “I’m gonna puke.”

“What?” That certainly broke Hajime out of the awkward staring contest. He grabbed hold of Souda by the wrist and yanked him across the bedroom to the bathroom, shoving him firmly towards the toilet. He turned to leave - he didn’t want to witness any of that - when something snagged onto the back of his shirt.

“Are you serious?” Hajime groaned. Souda felt too nauseated to dare opening his mouth, but he tugged insistently at Hajime’s shirt.

Hajime paused. Part of him - maybe even most of him - really wanted to brush Kazuichi’s hand away and flee the room before anything gross started happening. But Souda looked so… pathetic, sitting there trying not to vomit, still shaky and tearful from the nightmare, his hair tangled across his sweaty face.

Damn it. Hajime shouldn’t have looked at him.

“Fine, fine,” he sighed, kneeling beside Souda on the bathroom floor. He hastily gathered Kazuichi’s messy hair away from his face as the sick boy leaned further over the toilet. “You owe me big time for this. Especially when I end up catching this from you.”

Grumbling aside, Hajime stayed, managing not to complain or pull too many faces when Kazuichi was vomiting. He focused on holding Souda’s hair out of the way, glad he had one job he could manage. This comforting thing was way out of his depth. Souda kept one hand reaching backwards to clasp Hajime’s shirt, as if he didn’t quite trust him not to run away.

When the retching finally tapered off, Hajime released Souda’s hair and reached up to flush the toilet, grimacing. “Better?”

Kazuichi made a noise between a whine and a sob, head resting on the toilet seat.

“Well, at least it’s over. I’m gonna go grab you some water, okay?”

He stood up, but Kazuichi hastily lifted his head, looking outraged. “You’re leaving me? I could be dying here!”

“You’re not dying, Souda. Honestly, sometimes I think you should’ve been Ultimate Drama Queen.”

“Stay with me.” Kazuichi shuffled away from the toilet and latched onto Hajime leg.

“Souda, it will take me literally thirty seconds to grab a bottle of water. Now get off.” Hajime tried to yank his leg free, but Souda had a strong grip, even when ill.

“Nope. Don’t leave.”

Hajime sighed heavily. “Then get up and come back to the bed.”

Souda slumped down onto the cool linoleum floor, making sure to keep his arms around Hajime’s ankle. “Don’t wanna move. Everything hurts.”

“Oh, for fuck sake!” Hajime tried to pull Souda up himself, but Souda let his body go limp, sprawling across the bathroom floor, and Hajime couldn’t lift him up when he was dead weight like that.

“You know that’s exactly what toddlers do when they don’t want you picking them up,” Hajime snapped. Honestly, this was almost as bad as Nagito. Why did everybody mess with him when they were sick?

“I can see why. It’s very effective,” Kazuichi muttered.

“I could just leave, you know. Just say fuck it and let you lie there on your own.”

“Don’t.” The jesting tone had disappeared from Souda’s voice. He looked close to tears again, flat on his back and staring up at Hajime pleadingly.

Hajime tried to hold onto his frustration, but he couldn’t. Not with Kazuichi looking at him like that. He sighed and sat on the floor beside Souda, putting a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Keep your hand there,” Kazuichi mumbled. “It’s cold.”

“Fine. But if you let me leave I could get you a cold cloth for your head.”

“Noooo…”

“Okay, okay.” Hajime paused. Souda���s eyelids were drooping again. If he wanted to ask, Hajime had to do it quickly. “Hey, Kazuichi..?”

“Mn?”

“What happened? Earlier, I mean.”

“I puked.”

“No, you dope. Earlier than that. When you woke up. You seemed really terrified. Were you dreaming?” Hajime was already regretting asking. Kazuichi was sick and over-emotional. They were sitting on the bathroom floor, for God’s sake. Nothing good could come of emotional conversations on a bathroom floor.

There was another silence, so long Hajime checked to see if Kazuichi had dozed off. His eyes were wide open now, staring at the ceiling. “It was just a dream. That’s all.”

“Do you remember what it was about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kazuichi mumbled.

Hajime sighed. “Look, it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it. But it clearly freaked you out really bad. If there’s something you’re worried about or something that’s scaring you, I can-“ Hajime stopped as Kazuichi sat up abruptly. He kept his face turned to the wall, but Hajime heard the sniffles, saw his shoulders start shaking.

“Fuck,” Hajime muttered helplessly. “Kazuichi, I’m sorry. I’ll just be quiet. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m messing this all up, I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes.”

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Kazuichi sobbed. “So stupid I still dream about him! Why can’t he just go away!” He went on talking, but he was howling too hard for Hajime to understand. He’d seen Souda cry countless times before, but this was different somehow. This wasn’t just wailing because some girl he liked had turned him down. This was raw, painful terror.

“Hey hey, calm down! You’re gonna make yourself sick again,” Hajime said, trying hard to keep the panic out of his own voice. He took hold of Kazuichi’s wrists, pulling him gently away from the wall. He’d meant to lay Souda down in the same position as before, but Souda instantly fell against Hajime’s chest, practically knocking him over.

“Right. Um. You’re okay. You’re safe here,” Hajime mumbled, patting his sobbing friend awkwardly. He wasn’t used to embracing people. It felt strange and unnatural but not unpleasant - and Souda clearly needed a hug more than anything else right now. “Souda, breathe. It’s okay. You’re safe. The fever is probably making it worse. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked about the nightmare.”

“Home,” Kazuichi gasped.

“Huh?”

“I was dreaming about being back at home.”

Oh God. Where was that Ultimate Therapist again? Hajime didn’t know how to handle this. He couldn’t sort his own problems, let alone anyone else’s. “Oooh. Okay. Shit. Your dad..? You mentioned him once before.”

“Don’t. Don’t talk about it.”

“Okay. Sorry. So your dream was a memory? When he… hurt you?” Hajime guessed.

The sobbing, which had been gradually calming, quickly returned to near-hyperventilating.

“Sorry, sorry. Breathe, okay?” Hajime’s own heart was thumping hard. This was way more than he could handle. “Look… You’re away from there. He’s literally across an ocean. It’s just me and you here. Because you usurped my bed tonight.”

Kazuichi gave a snort that could’ve been a laugh. “It’s not… not usually this bad,” he said, his voice still jerky with sobs. “I-I can handle it on my own. The nightmares.”

“Fevers make nightmares worse. I think. I’d have to check with Mikan,” Hajime said. “But at least you were here this time.” He was surprised to find he really meant that. He couldn’t bear to think of Souda dealing with all that on his own.

They sat in silence for a long time, until Souda’s sobs died down to sniffles, his head still resting on Hajime’s chest. The front of Hajime’s shirt was now damp with tears and snot, and Souda’s feverish body was like a furnace, but he didn’t suggest they move. After a long time he found he’d wound his arms around Kazuichi’s shoulders.

“Are you still awake?” Hajime whispered eventually.

“Mn. Barely…”

“Listen, this is important. If you have dreams like that any other night, you can come over here. If you want. Just knock hard so I wake up.”

Kazuichi shifted in his arms to look at Hajime’s face. “You don’t have to do that. Don’t feel like you’re stuck with me.”

“Maybe I don’t mind being stuck with you,” Hajime retorted.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Kazuichi’s face, though he was still red and tear-stained. “Then you’re fucking crazy.”

“It’s not crazy to want to be your friend, Souda. So will you ask me for help next time you dream something like that? Please?”

Kazuichi wound his arms around Hajime’s middle and squeezed so hard it made Hajime gasp. “Okay. I’ll come get you.” He paused. “Thanks, Hajime.”

Kazuichi fell asleep soon after, still pinning Hajime to the bathroom floor with his weight. And though Hajime would moan about how sore and stiff he was the next morning, he was still glad Souda came to him for help. Just about.

[kominum]

rewatching old sailor moon and thought of like... disgruntled tuxedo mask!corpse but with unrequited love because i’m a glutton for angst

wc: ~2.2k 

warnings: death of a minor character, implicit knowledge of sailor moon lore, modern twist, unedited

please send in ideas you might have that i could write short blurbs for! this was honestly fun to write. 

It’s a scratch he can’t itch. It’s what has him waking up in cold sweats, confused and moderately annoyed that his hard-earned sleep has been so rudely interrupted. He hates the cape, he hates the itchy suit, he abhors the top hat – and the only things he doesn’t really hate are his baton and endless supply of darkened roses.

The first time he transformed, he was half-asleep and struggling to understand why he was speeding down the highway and parking two blocks away from some random back alley. His pain was relatively dulled, which was surprising, and his body suddenly possessed a world of fighting skills that felt foreign yet familiar. All he could recognize was a slightly disheveled woman cursing and just trying her best against some odd form of demon spawn, and before he knew it, he’d thrown down a dark purple rose and engaged in combat. Once said woman found an opening, she took off her headband/tiara, performed a throw that would put professional frisbee players to shame, and the monster disintegrated into dust.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, body hunched over and hands on his knees. “What the fuck was that?”

“More like who the fuck are you?”

“Fuck if I know,” he muttered and dusted himself off.  

“What’s with your get-up anyways?” She failed to hide her snickering. “You’re 3 decades behind.”

“Do I look like I want to fight in a suit? Plus, you’re fighting in some rendition of a schoolgirl uniform.” Her black thigh-high boots were killer, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“You should’ve seen what it was before, but I was able to make some changes. Good heads-up for you and—”

“Sailor Moon, are you okay?!”

Oh. So she’s got a talking cat, too. What in fresh hell was going on? Did he take something? But also—“Your name is Sailor Moon?”

“We’re working on the name change,” she grumbled, bending down to let said feline jump up her arm and settle on her shoulder. “Anyways, uh…thanks. I was kind of in a bind, but I’m usually not I swear. Good timing, I guess?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it.” But she was already in the wind, hopping from roof to roof with no inhibitions, and left him completely dumbfounded.

His silly attire dissolved back into his previous clothing as he ambled back towards his car, thought not exactly at his own will. But he shrugged, slid into the car seat, and dialed the only person he could think of who would readily pick up at this ungodly hour of…2:37AM. That was just the start, and he can’t tell if things went downhill from there.

-

He should backtrack.

He met you almost two years ago at a hospital.

You had been waiting anxiously for your boyfriend to come out of surgery after being in a bad car accident, biting your nails, occasionally pacing back and forth, smoothing your hands worriedly against your jeans, and gnawing your bottom lip to death. It was midday, sometime after lunch, and he’d come in for some routine checkup he can’t remember what for now, and sat a few seats away from you in the tiny hospital coffee shop. He’s no therapist or expert, but he highly doubted that any caffeine would alleviate your anxiety. Yet you sat there with two to-go cups and a granola bar wrapper, and something told him to stick around for now.

He’s never been one for a lot of small talk, but you looked to be about his age and no one else was with you. Tragedy tasted most bitter when alone, and some force of the universe told him to at least say something, anything. So he stuffed his hands into his hoodie and shuffled awkwardly to your table, tentatively asking a, “Hey, uh…is everything okay?”

You’d looked up at him with wild eyes on the verge of tears, heart battering against your chest, and the only intelligible thing that left your mouth was a “Huh?”

And he’d casted a gentle grin, eyes laced with a mixture of pity and concern, and asked again his first question. “My boyfriend’s in surgery. He got in a bad accident. There’s um…roughly two hours left, I think.”

“And you thought coffee would make it better?” He jutted his chin towards your large cups.

“Hot chocolate,” you chuckled. “I’m not keen on torturing myself like that, not now at least.”

“Well, I’ve got an appointment soon but I should be done before his surgery’s over…want me to come check up on you?”

Dumbfounded was the best way to describe your expression, and he was so close to retracting his offer before you gave him one of the most thankful smiles he’d seen in many years. “I’d really appreciate that.”

He nodded. “Sounds good then. Give me a sec.”

At the counter, he paid for another cup of hot chocolate and added in a chocolate chip cookie for good measure before bringing it back to you. “I hear chocolate helps.”

“Thank you, again. Go, don’t want to make you late.”

But an hour and a half later in the waiting area outside surgery, the doctor came out with a solemn expression, and you all but collapsed into the plastic chairs, tears leaking like waterfalls from your eyes. Part of him wanted to bail and go because there wasn’t much he could do, but it wouldn’t be right to leave you to drive home now. He wanted to make sure that you were calmed down, all cried out, and breathing properly so you could at least operate a vehicle safely.

The same unknown force had him offering you his number in case you needed anyone to talk to, yet the conversation sat empty for weeks until curiosity and guilt ate at him. He tapped out a message, deleting it, then another one, more deleting, before he settled on a plain, “It’s the guy from the hospital. I know it’s been a while but…how are you?”

Your reply was almost instantaneous, to which he worried if he’d accidentally woken you up at 4:13AM. First, it’s a casual, “hey, thanks for checking up on me! I’m doing okay,” but he knew better. And the other shoe dropped in the form of a simple, “I miss him.”

It’s a quiet, heartwarming friendship. You know nothing specific about him – he’s incredibly vague on any identifying information. Hell, you’d be willing to bet that the name at the hospital was a fake one. Nevertheless, he’s one of your closest friends. You know he mainly works online, has a lot of trouble sleeping, is chronically ill and has a number of medical conditions, his general disposition and feelings on things, but overall, just wonderfully easy to talk to.

Yet something just feels wrong about falling in love with him. It’s a horrid combination of guilt and disbelief. Are you rebounding? Are you subconsciously searching for your dead ex-boyfriend? Are you so desperate for romantic connections that you’ve twisted yourself into believing you love a man that you’ve seen fewer times than the number of fingers you have?

You come to peace with it when his custom ringtone chimes softly on your nightstand in the middle of the night. Rain or shine, stars or none, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him. Nothing has ever woken you up so quickly, not even alarms on interview days. “Hello?”

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Kind of, but it’s fine. What’s up? Wait,” you interrupt yourself and listen carefully to your speaker. “Are you…driving?”

“…yeah.”

“Should I ask from or to where?”

“I…honestly don’t know. Something felt off, felt like I had to get out of my place and just fucking do something. So uh, I drove somewhere and just started driving back home.”

You curl up under your sheets on your side and plug your earbuds into the phone. “Well, did it get rid of whatever you were feeling?”

“I think so? Honestly couldn’t fucking tell you. Still really bizarre to me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you murmur. “Well, feel free to call me whenever you feel like that again.”

“I don’t wanna fuck up your sleep schedule though. Feel like it’ll happen more often than I’d like.”

“How about this – if I don’t pick up, it’ll just be my nice way of saying ‘fuck off, too busy sleeping right now’?”

A soft, deep chuckle warms your chest and cheeks. “Sounds good. So how’ve you been?”

“Well, you know…”

It’s the same night that you think you might have a chance at love again. You fall asleep with his voice weaving stories and tales in your ears and wake up to a message that says, “Wow, didn’t know I was so fucking boring that it made you snore so loud.” The hope that creeps through your veins is dangerous and thrums urgently whenever you get a call or message from him.

And as bright as a star, it all comes crashing down in a firey blaze.

You crash into a girl as mysterious and serenely beautiful as the moon with a talking black cat one afternoon. She exudes a gorgeous amount of confidence in her stance as she protects you from a creature that looks like it’s out of a horror video game, and you can only stare in awe. The cat from before yells instructions at you, throwing what looks like a pen with a red cap on it and you blindly follow them. Your subsequent red heels feel incredibly comfortable and you can’t remember the last time you wore a skirt – but there’s no time to ponder as you push the girl you were admiring out of harm’s way and somehow manage to direct fire at them from your fingertips.

The monster burns and screams in agony before getting hit with what looks like a glowing frisbee. Your savior wipes the dust off her outfit before extending a hand out to you, “Welcome to the club, Sailor Mars.”

Say what now?

“There’s gotta be a better name than that,” is the first thing you say as you get pulled up. She throws her head back and lets out a charmingly obnoxious laugh. “We’ll work on changing it. I can tell we’re gonna be good friends.”

“Her name ended up being a rip-off of my name,” the cat quips and receives a scowl from the supposed plagiarizer. “I’m Luna, and this is Sailor Moon, or Lunaria she says.”

“You gotta admit, that’s cutting it a little close,” you agree and Lunaria flips the bird. “How the fuck am I going to change Sailor Mars? Also, can I do anything about this outfit?”

“We can go shopping tomorrow for sure. Luna and I can fill you on everything and – oh, before I forget, there’s a guy—”

“So it looks like you don’t need my help?”

You freeze in your steps, startled by the familiar baritone approaching you two. He was involved in all this?

“I told you, I don’t need your help—”

“Is she new?”

“Yeah, which means, we really don’t need your help. She’s got actual fire power. Literal fire.”

“That’s pretty fucking cool,” he accepts. “Good to meet you.”

You spot a set of veiny fingers that appears in your peripheral and you tentatively turn in his direction, hoping that your hair will obstruct your face as much as possible. “Same,” your throat manages to squeak out as his warm hand engulfs yours in a firm handshake.

“Get out of here, Corpse,” Lunaria chides and lets go of you to push a finger to his chest.

“I’m only here because you fucking needed saving. Now you’ve got another person dragged in.”

“I told you, I’m not some fucking damsel in distress,” she hisses. The mirth in his visible eye only causes the infuriation to grow and swirl more vigorously in her gut.

You watch the exchange from the sidelines as Corpse’s teasing only increases and provokes Lunaria further, disheartened that you’ve never heard him laugh so much in one exchange before. Dread from deep within your veins begins to freeze around your heart, something so set and undeniable that causes your brain to realize that falling in love with him was a mistake. It was the kind of mistake that would strike you with pain for years and the intense foreshadowing has you spinning on your heel and bounding through an alleyway. Your outfit shifts back to what you’d been wearing before, the characteristic weight of your phone in your back pocket seeming heavier than ever.

You call him that night, holding in a deep breath when the dial tone breaks midway. A rustle, a breath, and then, “Hey what’s up?”

Oh god, you scream to yourself as your heart shatters at the bottom of your chest. His voice, again, cannot be misconstrued as anyone else’s – the inflection, the tone, the volume, everything belonged to him.

And the universe told you then and there that he, undoubtedly, belonged to her.

[pandoraborn]

Disclaimers: Based on a headcanon that Wilbur is autistic, and a chance for me to ventfic about sensory overload, because shit’s a bitch. Slight IRL based, with computers and streaming, etc. Though based around SBI family dynamics (they’re a family your honor). No actual CC’s involved in this fic, thank you.

word count: 1014 words starring: Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit content: autistic!wilbur, sensory overload, anxiety, panic attack, detailed descriptions of sensory overload, please be safe.

-------------------

It’s not like his head is pounding with unchecked pain, it’s quite painless up there. Still, the computer screen is too bright, the humming of his computer too loud, the lights in his room even brighter than the screen, somehow-

By all rights, he feels as though his head has no business not headaching. This should be earning himself a migraine, and Wilbur wants to feel one. It would make sense, it would feel natural in this state. But the lack of any actual pain is just calling to attention the pain he’s feeling all the same.

It really doesn’t help that he’s in the middle of a stream, and Tommy’s voice is laugh-screeching in his ears, all over another stupid joke Tubbo made. Tubbo’s jokes aren’t stupid, normally Tubbo is hilarious but-

“Wilbur, you haven’t said anything for a couple of minutes, you good man?” Tommy’s character turns to face his, and Wilbur realizes he’s been frozen in place for a long time. He glances over at his chat to see it flying by. People are mocking him, people are saying he looks tired, and others are asking if he’s okay.

“I think I’m going to end stream,” he forces himself to say. “I feel awful suddenly. I’m sorry Tommy, I know-”

“It’s okay Wil. Go take care of you.” Tommy sounds...unusually calm. Does he know what Wilbur is feeling? It’s unlikely, even though he’s only a couple of rooms over.

Wilbur doesn’t respond to Tommy, but he does mute himself and switch off of Minecraft, focusing the screen on his camera. “Sorry chat, I know it’s only been a half hour, but I’m going to call it. Thanks for tuning in today, I’ll be back at some point in the future.”

With a forced smile and a wave goodbye, he ends the stream. He waits for his chat to trickle to a crawl, before ceasing all conversation as people migrate to other streamers. He realizes he didn’t even raid anyone.

He sits in his computer chair far longer than intended. Even with his computer shutting down, he can still hear the hum. The lights are still too bright, and now Wilbur just feels wrong. It’s hard to tell what the source of wrong is, but he’s rubbing at his arms and breathing way too fast. His arms feel too itchy, too tight, and he’s now realizing his skin itself is uncomfortable. He can’t take it off, he can’t... take it offtakeitofftakeitoff-

“Wilbur?”

Tommy’s voice is interrupting him, far too quiet above the roaring in his head. Wilbur jerks his head to the side, trying to get away from that pounding racket that is his brother’s voice. Is he whimpering? He doesn’t know what the noises coming out of his mouth are, only that he’s panicking, he’s spiraling, everything is too bright and too loud and too close and-

“Wilbur!” Tommy’s fingers are prying at his own, peeling them away from reddening skin. Wilbur recoils, letting out a dry sob as the very touch from his brother sends waves of pain up and down his body. Not pain, but more wrong.

“Tommy, don’t,” he chokes out. “I’m-”

“Oh.” Tommy lets go and backs up. Wilbur can see him doing this, and the distance immediately has him feeling better. It’s one less sensation that’s being thrown at him. Then, the lights are off. It’s another sensation gone, but it’s not an immediate fix. Wilbur wants to curl up on the floor and wail and cry, but he can’t move from his chair. Even the chair feels wrong. The clothes against his skin feel wrong.

“Where’s your weighted blanket?” Tommy asks. He’s whispering, his voice is far too quiet and soothing, and suddenly, instead of being a source of agony, it’s a source of comfort, and Wilbur is latching onto it, trying to keep himself grounded. He needs to focus on what’s in front of him instead of the roaring painful chaos echoing around his head.

“Dunno,” Wilbur returns. Downstairs, he can hear the sound of a dish clattering in the sink. He hunches over, gripping his arms to try and keep himself from trembling. It’s not working. It’s especially not working because Tommy is forcefully pulling him away from the chair and toward his bed. He struggles weakly, letting out a half whimper, half sob. The contact is immediately dropped when he’d pushed into his bed, with his weighted blanket being dropped on top of him. Wilbur wraps himself up tightly, taking solace in the heaviness that settles over him. Under here, nothing can hurt him. He doesn’t even feel the urge to rip himself out of his own skin.

He waits for Tommy to say something again, just so he’d have an excuse to lash out or snap, but instead, he hears a fan being turned on for white noise, followed by the sound of his bedroom door closing. He pokes his head out with a frown, but he’s alone in his room, with the lights off.

Wilbur realizes his phone is still at his desk, but that’s probably a good thing. The screen would just send him into a panic all over again, and he really just needs to relax. Burying himself again, he focuses on the sound of the fan. It’s helping, somewhat. He can still hear Tommy faintly laughing, he can still hear footsteps from downstairs, along with banging. Life in his house isn’t going to stop because he’s stupid, but at least the sounds aren’t hurting as much anymore.

Closing his eyes, he lets out a shaky sigh. He’s finally starting to relax, trembling slowing to a crawl, much like his chat had done earlier. But now, with his body no longer so tense, and things no longer so bright, he can feel the faint beginnings of a headache forming.

For some reason, that brings the biggest bit of comfort he’s felt in minutes. Tangible pain is easiest to deal with. Dealing with that makes everything else seem small in the long run, and that means he’ll be okay.

[eyeofthedrgn]

I have finally decided on a title for this multi chapter Rowcan fic: A Heavy Battle Symphony. Inspired by two Linkin Park songs (Heavy{feat. Kiiara}, Battle Symphony) that seem to fit the bill of the overall tone of the story. Since it deals with such dark topics and mental health, it just works. I wasn't intending for this to be song inspired, but here we are.

Also, I'm bad at summaries, but here we go:

Set in a modern high school AU. Lorcan was forced to live with his Aunt Maeve and boyfriend James Perrington, both of which are abusive. Once they move to Orynth, Lorcan's life is thrown into disarray when he meets Rowan.

Trigger warnings : language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), just a lot of trauma, angst, smut - lots of lovely gay smut

Word count: just over 2k

Chapter 1 - Numb

Lorcan Salvaterre has had a pretty shitty life for only being 17. He's been to so many different schools, he doesn't remember them all. His mother died long ago, he didn't have a father, and he was then forced to live with his despicable Aunt Maeve when he was five. Lorcan didn't remember his mother anymore, all he knew was the cruelty of his aunt and her boyfriend, James Perrington.

Maeve's job required them to move every few months. Which meant his schooling was rather poor and often overlapped from school to school. He was always the loner and easily overlooked, at least until his growth spurt last year that catapulted him to be six and half feet tall.

He'd never had a friend in his life. No one would ever want to be friends with him in the first place. He always had a scowl on his face, wore black, long black hair, head down, his skin was a beautiful deep olive, his eyes dark as onyx. He was rather strange. And since his growth spurt, his hulking frame kept everyone away.

He never smiled, he rarely talked. To anyone. Not that he had much to say. He had no hobbies, no pleasures. All he was allowed to do in this meaningless life were chores, his homework, and lay in his room staring at the ceiling.

The way Lorcan had grown up was brutal. There were beatings for not finishing chores, misbehaving, or most of the time, just existing. He never got three meals a day, on the very rare occasion, he would get a small dinner, but generally, the only meal was usually lunch at school or when they were traveling. Even then, Maeve would order the smallest meal for the boy, gods forbid she had to spend more money on him than necessary or look bad in front of people.

That also meant that if he needed new clothes or something for school, he had to work extra for it. A lot of the time, he felt like a severely more abused Cinderella. His aunt made him do some of the most tedious chores in payment for his necessities.

The chores he could handle, sometimes they were even relaxing. The beatings on the other hand were less than desirable. Especially when most of the abuse wasn't even a result of Lorcan's supposed incompetency. But every beating was recorded in Lorcan's journal and accompanied by self harm.

Lorcan's mental health was far from healthy. He wished he had the courage to slice his wrists deeper, but if he failed to finish the job, he couldn't imagine how Maeve would react and what she would make Perrington do to him. So, he settled for the scars. 

His wrists and forearms were covered in scars. Every shirt he had was long sleeved to cover his coping habit. He didn't want questions or people staring, he hated being pitied. Honestly, he hated pretty much everything.

---

The new apartment Maeve had rented in Orynth was just like the rest of them. Lorcan's room was the smallest and also used for storage. Not that it mattered to Lorcan he only had a few things anyway, but it did mean that either his aunt or her boyfriend would barge in, whenever they wished, to grab something. Since Lorcan realized they were never going to stop and they always removed the lock from his door, he took to changing in the bathroom.

Lorcan was exhausted. He had spent all day moving every single box Maeve and Perrington had into the new apartment, making sure he put the boxes in the correct rooms. And setting up his room to give himself some semblance of privacy with the way he piled the storage boxes. 

A sleeping bag, a duffel bag full of worn and faded clothes in various shades of black, a few well worn books, a journal that he used to record every beating and every cut, and a fraying backpack full of school supplies were all of Lorcan's belongings. He didn't even have a real bed. Or a pillow.

Almost asleep in his sleeping bag, Maeve barges into his room and starts yelling at him.

"Lorcan! Where in the gods' forsaken apartment are my hair products!"

Lorcan had no idea why she needed them at midnight. "They're in your bathroom." Obviously.

"If they were, I wouldn't be here, you useless piece of shit!" She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, then shoved him into the hall. He knew better than to fight as he stumbled down the hall, he did his best to keep his face neutral, but fuck, that hurt.

Resisting the urge to rub his poor scalp, he stalked to Maeve's bathroom and opened the box labeled MAEVE'S HAIR PRODUCTS. Lorcan sighed when he was greeted with her towels.

"I already looked there, you little welp," she snarled. "Now find my shit!" She stormed out and slammed the door.

Lorcan hung his head and looked around the room. He just wanted to sleep. It wasn't his fucking fault she mislabeled her fucking boxes. Again. Finding the box labeled MAEVE'S TOWELS, he opened it and sighed with relief as he set eyes on her missing items, and set the box on the counter. He informed Maeve of his discovery before heading back to bed.

---

Five hours later, Lorcan woke up, like clockwork. He released a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes. Hel, he was tired. Time to start an exhausting day of learning a new school and schedule.

Every morning was the same, up at five, shower, get ready for school, make breakfast that he wasn't allowed to eat. Only the adults were allowed breakfast. He'd get a knee to the gut if he attempted to snatch a strip of bacon or a link of sausage, or even a piece of toast. So, his stomach would growl until he got to eat a pathetic school lunch.

This morning would be slightly different from the rest, though. Maeve would have to take him to school and make sure he was registered. She always acted the caring aunt in public. It disgusted Lorcan. Especially when she would go the extra mile and kiss his cheek.

After Maeve left without a word to Lorcan, he stood in the main hall with his schedule and map in hand. This school was huge. Much bigger than most of the other high schools he had been to. That was to be expected, though. This was Orynth High after all, the biggest high school in the biggest city of Terrasen.

He looked over his schedule. He had no idea how he made it to senior year with all the holes in his education.

Fuck, why was pre-calc first? At least he was good at math.

He looked at the clock at the end of the hall, he still had half an hour before school actually started. Rather than wasting time, he found all of his classrooms in order, twice, and then went to the library to grab the necessary textbooks. 

By the time he left the library, the halls were filling up. Kids all around him were chattering, he was either ignored or kids looked at him with scared eyes and scurried out of his way.

He tugged his hood up and shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and made his way to first period.

---

Since it was the start of a new semester, most teachers ignored that Lorcan was new to the school. That was fine, he didn't want the attention anyway. But in his last class of the day, creative writing, they had to split into groups for an assignment. Lorcan hated group assignments. He was partnered with the smallest teenager he had ever seen.

"I'm Elide. You're new here aren't you?"

His nod was barely perceptible.

"It's Lorcan, right?" He nodded again. "Where are you from?" Her eyes were filled with pure curiosity. 

He cleared his throat. "Originally from Doranelle, but I don't remember it. My mother died when I was five. My aunt took me in and we move a lot." He blinked and shook his head in confusion at himself for telling a complete stranger something he hadn't told anyone else before.

How did this petite young woman bewitch him to talk more than he had in weeks? Lorcan felt exposed under her gaze. It felt like she could read him like a book. It was unnerving. 

"That sounds rough. I hope you like it here and I hope we can be friends." She finished with a smile.

Lorcan just turned back to the assignment.

The class passed without much other conversation besides about the assignment they had to do together.

Finally, the bell rang signalling the end of the day.

The first day at this school was done and he was exhausted and hungry. Lorcan was so focused on packing up his supplies into his ratty backpack that he didn't realize Elide was talking to him.

"A group of us are going to the park to hang out, wanna join?" He was zipping up his backpack, not hearing a word she said. "Lorcan?"

"Huh?" He looked up, confused. She giggled. His cheeks heated just slightly.

"Do you want to hang out with my friends and I after school?"

Why would he want to do that? Lorcan did remember saying she hoped they could be friends, but he thought she was just being polite. Now, she was trying to follow through.

But there was only one answer.

"No."

---

Elide adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she walked to the park to meet her friends. She could see Lorcan walking on the other side of the street away from her. His hood was up, head down, hands in his hoodie pocket, his posture slightly hunched. She thought he could almost pass for a shadow if his black clothes weren't so faded and worn.

She remembered looking into his eyes during class and seeing deep pools of onyx, they would have been gorgeous, but instead, they were dull, and lifeless. He had been so hard to read. Elide had guessed that he didn't have a good home life and they were poor, by the state of his clothes and backpack. She had seen the scars on his wrist when he reached into his bag for an eraser. It broke her heart. Watching him walk away, she noticed how awkwardly his clothes hung off of him. He was definitely too skinny for his frame.

So lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear one of her friends come up behind and loop his arms through hers. Elide yelped and then realized it was her friend, Rowan Whitethorn. He had silver hair and pine green eyes that were always bright.

"I didn't mean to scare you! I called your name, but you were off in your own little world!"

"Sorry. I was thinking about the new kid that you will probably end up having a crush on." Rowan scoffed, Elide just laughed. 

They walked a bit in silence until Rowan made his confession.

"He is hot! He's in my gym class. Tell me everything, my precious Elide! I want to know!" Rowan was so excitable, it was infectious.

"He's in my creative writing class and we were partnered together. He said he's from Doranelle, his mother died when he was five, and his aunt took him in. And apparently, they move a lot." She also told him about the assumptions she made from her observations.

Rowan soaked up every word.

---

Lorcan was doing homework at the kitchen table when Maeve and Perrington came in with take out. It smelled good, Lorcan's stomach rumbled. Damn it. To his surprise, Maeve set down a small Chinese take out box right in the middle of this textbook. He blinked at it, and then up at his aunt, she looked kind for once. "Thank you." It was barely a whisper, but he knew she heard it because she nodded before walking away.

Sometimes he actually thought she loved him..

After his studies and meager dinner, Lorcan laid in his sleeping bag, using an old hoodie that didn't fit anymore as a pillow, trying to sleep. A sigh left his lips and he rolled over.

He couldn't sleep even though he was exhausted, so he pulled a well worn novel from his duffle bag. It was The Hobbit. Lorcan had read it many times. The spine was broken, pages were dog eared, some of the pages weren't even glued in anymore. But he enjoyed the adventure.

Lorcan was halfway through his book, when his window started lightening with the new day. He groaned and his stomach growled.

++++

Rowan couldn't get that new dark haired boy out of his mind. Lorcan Salvaterre. He had soaked up all the information he could from Elide about his new crush. Concentrating on his homework was so hard.

"Ugh." Rowan ran his hand through his hair and smacked his cheeks a couple of times to get himself to snap out of it. He still had homework to finish.

"Rowan, love, would you like some hot chocolate?" His mom leaned into his room. "You seem distracted today."

His mom, Barb, was the sweetest lady and the best mother one could ask for. They talked about everything. And he swore she had eyes everywhere because she always knew everything. Sometimes, Rowan hated that his mom was so observant.

"Yes, please." He got up from his desk and followed his mom to the kitchen. He enjoyed his cocoa with marshmallows. After taking a few sips, he told his mom about the new kid in school. She just smiled knowingly at him.

"Elide says he moves a lot. But I don't know exactly what 'a lot' means. Also, he's probably not into guys." He quirked his lips to the side. 

"You should probably start with actually talking to the boy."

Rowan whined, "Mom!" She just laughed and kissed the top of his head before retreating to the living room, leaving him with his thoughts and empty cup.

_____

Thanks for reading! I'll probably post the next chapter next Thursday or Friday.

[smashboxgirl26]

vengeance / chapter 8: unspoken confession

chapter 7: helping | chapter 9: anxiety

vengeance masterlist

It was 6:50 by the time you’d thrown open the door to your apartment and stumbled inside.

You’d gotten no indication from Katsuki that he was coming, or where he was, or anything. This put you off a little, considering he could be off doing dangerous things somewhere.

You walked over to the tv and switched on the news, scrolling up on your phone to see if there were any new notifications. Thankfully, the news reporter stated that the day had been relatively peaceful, with no villain attacks in the area, before droning on about the elections that were coming up soon.

You let out a sigh as you leaned back against the couch, staring at the light bulb directly above you. You really wanted to call Katsuki and ask him what was taking so long, but the reminder that he could be undercover still lingered.

It felt so wrong, in the way that you felt empty without him there.

Guess I should actually be productive and not lazy around while waiting for him.

You got up from the couch, stretching your arms over your head before grabbing the remote to turn the tv off.

If anything, you needed to take a shower, badly. You hadn’t showered since yesterday morning, not having nearly enough time today since you immediately had to head off to work with Katuski when you got home.

And showers were nice. They helped, in some ways.

You stood in front of the mirror after stripping all your clothes off, staring at the blank face that held no emotion as it stared back. You felt worse, somehow than you had earlier. The dark circles were visible even under the concealer you’d put on this morning. You looked back at the reflection with sad eyes, trying to ignore the ideas running rampant in your mind as you pushed your way into the shower.

The warm water trickled down endlessly as you leaned your head against the wall and stared up at the tiled ceiling. There was still so much.

The work you had been getting recently was pushing you to the end of your rope, you felt like you were drowning. Not to mention studying for the MCATs, and keeping up with everything happening at the agency along with all your classes.

You let out a large breath of a sigh, as you stared down at your legs, observing the way they felt against the cool, tiled surface that the shower provided in its walls.

You just needed to study and do homework. Then you’d be done.

But the longing to stay in the shower and daydream for longer won, so you upped the temperature of the water, watching the steam rise to the top of the shower and out to the rest of the bathroom.

…

You rolled your head to each side a couple of times after settling yourself down on the couch with your laptop in front of you. You’d barely been getting any work done these days, continuously putting it off for practically no reason. It was piling up, and fast.

You stared at the long list of assignments posted on the application the school used. You hoped it would help motivate you to try and work on it in some way, yet the sight just gave you a large amount of anxiety.

You didn’t even want to look at it, let alone work on it. The feeling rose quickly in your chest, and you shut the laptop, opting to stare at the blank TV screen in front of you instead.

It felt horrible to be so, unproductive, but you couldn’t bring yourself to actually do anything about it. It felt easier to just ignore everything right now and worry about it in the future.

Plus, you felt hungry.

So, instead of doing some work before heading off to the kitchen to make food, you ignored it all and just decided to eat dinner and watch tv instead.

Is Katsuki going to be coming over when he’s done or what? Should I make enough for both of us or just me?

You stared over the packets of frozen noodles in the fridge. It would be incredibly awkward for him to come and for you not to have food ready. But on the other hand, maybe he kinda deserved it for blowing you off for the rest of the day and not even mentioning something before he left.

He could’ve easily sent you a text before he left, but he didn’t. And that, honestly made your chest sting a bit.

Yeah he might’ve had an emergency but he could’ve said something. Anything.

Whatever.

You brushed away your thoughts, and decided you’d make enough for the both of you. He wasn’t exactly one to take proper care of himself when he was focused on something. And the fact that he hadn’t said anything before he ran off to do whatever showed that he was probably incredibly focused on whatever he was doing.

After putting two packets of the noodles in the pan and turning the heat on, you decided to turn the tv on and watch as you cooked in the kitchen.

It was peaceful, different from how it usually was.

Generally, either you or Katsuki would end up at the other’s place after work or school, and then the other person would always end up sleeping over. For some reason, you hadn’t gotten an apartment together yet - which was incredibly weird considering how long it’d been.

But, it never really felt like the right time, or you could never find a place you both liked. So, you stuck with what you had together - pretty much two houses where your stuff was equally distributed.

The consistent chatter from the TV allowed you to delve into your thoughts, as you mindlessly began finishing up the noodles and pouring them into the two separate bowls on the counter.

And just as you were putting the big pan into the sink, you heard the jingling of keys coming from the front door, watching as it opened to reveal Katsuki as he sauntered into the living room. He was still wearing his hero costume, minus the mask and the gauntlets, and you watched as he made sure to close the door and lock it behind him before he continued into the small space.

He almost looked too big for your apartment. Something that was incredibly funny at first, that he now just found plain annoying. Well, that’s student housing for you.

“Hey,” he said as he followed the scent of food into the kitchen.

“Hey.”

You didn’t really want to say anything to him first. He should be the one explaining himself to you.

“Sorry I was late,” he said gruffly, eyeing the bowl of noodles on the counter. “I got, caught up in a few things.”

You immediately noticed the hesitation in his voice, but didn’t raise any awareness to his tiny mishap. “It’s fine.”

He only nodded slightly at your response, choosing not to say anything more as he stalked off to the bedroom so he could change. He wanted out of his sweaty costume as soon as possible.

More than that, he could see that you were visibly upset (probably because he had been gone all day without a word). But in a way, he was thankful you didn’t blow up on him as soon as he’d walked in. He was going to tell you, obviously, but then the issue with De-, no, Midoriya came up.

He wanted to tell you about what had happened between them as soon as he could. It would be better if you heard it from him and not some random extra, or even worse, Midoriya himself.

And honestly, he needed that time for himself. Even if was technically on patrol, the walk easily cleared his mind and helped him with his anxiety. It would all be okay, as long as you heard it from him.

At least that’s what he’d been telling himself.

He sighed heavily, taking one last look in the mirror as he slipped one of his t-shirts on, sticking his hero costume in the small hamper that laid in the corner of the bedroom. He had stopped at the agency on the way back to your apartment, but he was too exhausted to change over there, opting to just take the gauntlets and the mask off before coming over.

He stepped back out of the bedroom, clad a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, before heading over to where you were sitting in the living room. By the way you were hunched over, he could tell that you were closing yourself off from him.

He knew he fucked up by not even shooting you a text before he left.

“So, um, how was your day?” he asked awkwardly as he sat himself down across from you at the small dining table.

You didn’t even look up at him when you replied, “Fine.”

“S’good.”

And once again it was silent.

Katsuki hated himself for being this awkward around you. You’d been together for so long now, why couldn’t he just say that he was sorry and admit it was his fault? Clearly you were mad at him, because you hadn’t said anything to him unless he said something first.

“Sorry…”, he said slowly.

Only then did your eyes finally look up to meet his, urging him to continue.

“I-I should’ve told you I was going to be going out and staying late, so yeah,” he said, forcing his pride and ego down. Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated to defend his innocence, but he hated it when you acted cold towards him.

Funny in a way, since that was how you got to know each other in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you said, giving him a small smile, trying to reassure him.

You didn't want him to feel guilty for much longer. In some ways you understood how his job was and it was inevitable that sometimes it would end up like the way that it did.

“You could’ve just told me, ya know? Before running off like that.”

Bakugou didn't say anything afterwards, not wanting to drag the discussion and make it worse. So he left it at that, the air pretty much cleared as Bakugou began scarfing down the noodles you made -- even if they were frozen, he didn’t really care since he hadn’t eaten anything since this morning.

You noticed how quickly he was eating, and ended up pushing your half-eaten bowl towards him. He glanced at it, looking up at you from across the table with a confused look.

“Eat it,” you said as you got up from the table. “You didn’t eat anything at lunch.”

“Wot abou t-ou?” he asked, his voice muffled from the food stuffed in his mouth.

“I’m good, I’m not that hungry anyway. I had a big lunch.”

Before giving him another chance to protest, you had already walked back to the living room and grabbed your laptop. You knew you probably weren’t gonna end up doing any work, but you could at least try to motivate yourself.

Katsuki only looked guilty down at the bowl you’d pushed in front of him. He really didn’t deserve you, did he?

‘Just pray that you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life, and take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’

‘T a k e a s w a n d i v e o f f t h e r o o f o f t h e b u i l d i n g.’

He needed to tell you. You needed to know what had happened between them. And if you ended up leaving him over this, in some ways he deserved it. He knew he did.

What would’ve happened if Midoriya actually jumped, huh? What would his life look like then? He probably wouldn’t even be here, with you. He never would’ve been able to go to UA, or anywhere else frankly, after that.

Bakugou stood up slowly from his spot on the table. He was hungry, but the noodles could wait. He couldn’t wait any longer. You couldn’t wait any longer.

The thought had been weighing on him all day. If he held onto it for any longer, he felt like he was going to burst from guilt.

“Hey,” he said from the entrance of the kitchen, watching as you typed away at your computer.

Your gaze was torn away promptly, and you looked up with him with a slight smile.

Fuck.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” you answered, urging him on.

“It’s about.. Dek- I mean Midoriya and I.”

Bakugou promptly opened his mouth to speak, and you clung onto what he was about to say. But before he could say anything, his phone began ringing.

He cursed inwardly, snatching his phone out of his pocket, only to decline the call. Almost immediately, his phone began ringing again and it was flooded with notifications.

You stared at his phone expectantly, clearly he was needed.

“It’s okay,” you reassured. “Answer the phone.”

You watched as he scowled, muttering a sorry as he angrily pressed the accept button.

“What?!” he barked out.

And you watched as his face went from anger to sheer horror in a matter of seconds.

“Wh- What happened?”, you got up quickly from the couch and made your way towards him, trying to see if you could catch the conversation.

By that time, he had already hung up the phone and was making his way to the front door. His expression at the moment was unreadable, not giving you any indications on what had happened and why it was so bad.

“Katsuki, what happened?” you called out from behind him.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “Just stay here and don’t let anyone in, got it?”

“Okay, but wh-”

“I’ll tell you after.”

“Bu-”

And with that, the door slammed behind him, the time on the clock in the corner reading 8:15.

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lol, i forgot to put these in the last chapters, but if you want to be added to the taglist, just ask in the comments

tag list: @spicy-therapist-mom